


What's Done In The Dark Will Be Brought To The Light

by skarletfyre



Series: In The Absence Of Light [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Drama, Drama & Romance, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 102,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarletfyre/pseuds/skarletfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spy and Medic are both fairly private, complicated men. Perhaps more complicated than they first realised about each other. When the secrets start coming out of the woodwork, the complexities of their respective pasts start to intertwine. Allegiances must be questioned, choices must be made, and consequences must be dealt with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Understanding

**Author's Note:**

> i've been sitting on this fic for a while and i was hesitant to publish anything before it was finished, but i really want to get it off the ground. my intention right now is for this to possibly be a 20+ chapter story. i've wanted to write something for these two for a long time, and this seemed like the best way to collaborate a bunch of ideas into one continuous thing. 
> 
> i'll update as often as i can, hopefully with some consistency. feedback is always appreciated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> header artwork done by the absolutely wonderful and amazing and incredibly talented [leeroic!!](http://leeroic.tumblr.com/post/112436092971/thing-for-genuineanger-based-on-this-just-an) <33

[ ](http://leeroic.tumblr.com/post/112436092971/thing-for-genuineanger-based-on-this-just-an)

* * *

 

* * *

 

“I will not.”

“Spy, please, I am-”

“ _Non_.”

“There is blood on it. You are bleeding, because you have a head injury. I need to see your head to be able to tend to it.”

“I said I'm _fine_ ,” the Frenchman spat, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. He looked positively childish, sitting ramrod straight with his feet dangling over the edge of the examination table, chin held high in the air. “Use the Medigun. There is no reason for me to remove my mask, and I won't do it.”

Medic glared at him, and adopted the expression that Scout had once described as his “murder face.” He hoped it was suitably terrifying.

“Spy, I am going to be very blunt about this, as you are my colleague and I respect you. However, you are also my patient. My _injured_ patient. You fell down three flights of stairs-”

“I was _pushed_ down three flights of stairs,” Spy grumbled, but immediately shut up when he caught sight of Medic's face.

“Regardless of the circumstances,” Medic ground out, “You sustained multiple injuries, several of which are currently bleeding, and several more I suspect you are hiding from me out of some misguided and ridiculous sense of pride. I am your doctor. I am not going to harm you, or threaten you, or use any information against you now or in future. I trust you are aware of doctor-patient confidentiality, _ja?_ Your secrets are safe with me.”

Spy muttered in something in French. Medic didn't speak the language, but he knew when he was being insulted. In an effort to be the bigger person, he ignored it and pressed on.

“You are also an important member of this team, and your support is invaluable to us in battle, so this will be the blunt part: you cannot fight in your present condition. I will not allow it. You will not endanger yourself further, or your teammates, because you are too stubborn and willful to let me heal you! So if you insists on behaving like _ein Kind_ , then I am going to treat you like _ein Kind_. Remove your suit, _and your mask_ , or I will sedate you and strap you down and do it myself. Do you understand?”

Spy met his gaze unflinchingly, but his eyes were definitely wider than usual.

“That's how you treat children?” he asked after a moment.

“Yes,” Medic replied without hesitation. “Particularly children who are masquerading as grown men that should know better. Now, off with it. Everything. I need to see the extent of the damage.”

“But why can't you just use the Medigun?” Spy whined, nonetheless reaching up to loosen his tie. “Surely it can heal wounds through clothing.”

“Engineer has it,” Medic admitted irritably. “He wanted to run some tests, to attempt to improve performance. He promised to return it before the next battle. Unfortunately neither of us predicted that one of teammates would be stupid enough to injure themselves so gravely by tripping over their own feet in the interval.”

“I did not trip!” Spy insisted, shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it carefully on the table beside him. “ _Mon Dieu_ , I told you, I was pushed.”

“By whom?”

“Scout, I assume. Or perhaps Sniper.”

“You didn't see them?”

“ _Non_. I was... distracted.”

“What could possibly be so distracting that you did not notice someone creeping up behind you?” Medic asked, incredulous. “ _You_ , of all people.”

Spy, in lieu of an answer, mumbled something and set to work unfastening his cuffs. When he finished with those and turned his fingers to the buttons of his shirt, he hesitated. Medic nodded firmly and Spy's expression twisted into a scowl.

“I've seen you without your shirt before, Spy,” Medic reminded him tiredly. “I have performed surgery on you, on multiple occasions.”

“I was cut open then. That was different.”

“Do you really feel more vulnerable with a bare chest than with your actual internal organs on display?”

“I do not feel vulnerable!” Spy snapped, but clutched the fabric of his shirt closer. “I have scars. Birthmarks, moles, identifying features. Organs have no such recognisable marking.”

Medic snorted.

“That's what you think.”

Spy's eyes narrowed. Mercifully, he did not reply. He reached the last of the buttons and slid out of his dress shirt, laying it neatly atop his jacket. His gloves remained on. When he made to pull his undershirt over his head, however, Medic noticed the way he flinched and grimaced. As soon as Spy pulled the shirt up, he knew why.

A dark, blotchy bruise was spread across Spy's left side, an uneven purple in the center and a sickly yellow around the edges. Medic made a tutting sound and stepped forward, helping Spy pull the undershirt all the way over his head. The Frenchman squawked indignantly, which turned into a hiss of pain when Medic pressed his fingers into his side.

“You have a broken rib,” Medic told him, frowning. “ _Two_ broken ribs. I'm impressed you've managed to sit up as long as you have.”

“The pain was tolerable” Spy said, holding his arms out awkwardly as Medic prodded at the bruised area. “Until you started – _ah!_ \- doing that.”

“Two ribs broken, one cracked,” Medic murmured, mostly to himself. Then, louder, “You must have fallen directly on the edge of a step. You're lucky not to have punctured a lung. Your arm is bruised as well. Any pain?”

“ _Non_. That bruise is from a different injury, before I was _pushed_.”

“And your shoulder?”

“Is also fine.”

“I see. Take off your mask, _bitte_.”

Spy stiffened.

“I would prefer not to,” he said tightly. Medic straightened up and glared at him.

“Herr Spy, I can see that the wound is still bleeding. The side of your head is split open.”

“It does not hurt.”

“You need stitches.”

“I do not.”

“ _Spy, so help me-_ ”

Medic pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily, partly out of impatience and partly out of exasperation. He'd had difficult patients before. Sniper sprang most readily to mind, quickly followed by Scout. The former had to be practically dragged into his lab while the latter visited entirely too often. But at least the both of them knew to let him do his job, and that the quicker he was allowed to work the quicker they would be allowed to leave. Spy, while fairly complacent when it came to submitting to mandatory procedures, was absolutely terrible about his own health. And Medic was having none of it.

“If you are worried about revealing your true identity, I'm afraid you're too late,” he confessed, readjusting his glasses. “I have already seen your face.”

Spy's mouth fell open.

“ _What?_ ”

“Well, I have seen photographs,” Medic continued nonchalantly. “It wasn't on purpose. They were attached to your medical file.”

“ _You've read my medical files?_ ”

“ _Ja_ , of course I have. I am a doctor, Herr Spy, I've read everyone's medical records.”

Spy didn't answer. The colour had drained from his face, and his hands were now white-knuckled gripping the edge of the examination table. For a moment, Medic feared he might lunge at him.

“Where?” he asked, wetting his lips. “Where did you get them?”

“From the Administrator.”

“She just gave them to you? Just like that?”

Medic hesitated.

“Well, no... it required rather a bit of finagling on my part. I convinced her that the information was absolutely vital for the success of the _Über_ project.”

“And it wasn't?”

“Not _vital_ , perhaps, but certainly very useful!” Medic chuckled weakly, then coughed, unsettled by the way Spy was looking at him. “I wasn't expecting the amount of information that was included. I certainly wasn't expecting to violate the privacy of my _meine Kollegen_. Originally the procedure was only going to be performed on Heavy, but it occurred to me that it may have more uses, and it would also be useful to know of any and all health concerns and preexisting conditions that you and the others would not be willing to share, no matter the circumstances. And, as it turns it, the files were extremely useful. No harm done.”

“ _No harm done_ – do you even hear yourself?” Spy spluttered, eyes bulging in disbelief. “Do you have any idea what you've done, the amount of danger you've put yourself in?”

“No more danger than usual, I'd imagine,” Medic said idly, prodding at the “old” bruise on Spy's shoulder. Spy jerked away from him.

“ _Imb_ _é_ _cile!_ You've compromised us both! There are entire governments that have put a price on my head!”

“I have quite enough money, thank you.”

“Every man has his price.”

“Yes, well fortunately for you I am not most men. Now, remove your mask, _bitte.”_

Spy glared at him. Some of the colour had returned to his cheeks now, but he was still far too pale for Medic's liking. The blood seeping through the side of his balaclava, darkening the fabric to an even more aggressive shade of red, was still sticky and damp. The wound was still bleeding, as head wounds were wont to do. Medic met Spy's eyes with a glare of his own. After a moment, Spy's shoulders slumped.

“Lock the door, please,” he said quietly. “The chance of someone walking in... the risk is too great.”

Medic nodded in acquiescence and turned smartly on his heel. He walked across the room to the infirmary doors, latching them quickly and making a show of rattling them to display how secure they were. When he turned around, Spy had taken off his mask.

Sitting bare faced and shirtless, bruised and bloodied as he was, Spy looked more vulnerable than Medic had ever seen him.

He was staring at the floor, his mask gripped tightly between the hands resting in his lap. His hair, longer than it had been in the photograph Medic was given, was dark and thick and greying about his temples and forehead. It stuck up oddly. He'd clearly made no attempt to flatten it.

Medic allowed himself to stare for only a moment at the gaunt, stubbled cheeks and hooked nose before regaining his professional composure.

He approached slowly, making sure he stayed in Spy's sights at all times. The man's eyes snapped up to him as he drew closer, tracking Medic warily as he came to stand in front of him. They regarded each other coolly.

Medic cleared his throat.

“Turn your head, please,” he instructed.

“Do I need to cough?” Spy snarked as he complied, and Medic tutted.

“Not today, I'm afraid. Lower your chin so that I can – yes, like that, _danke_.”

Medic leaned closer to get a better look at the wound just behind Spy's left ear. It was a deep abrasion, about two inches in length and only just beginning to clot. The blood was matted in Spy's hair and had run down onto his neck and the top of his shoulder. Gently, Medic pressed at the edges of the wound. Spy made no sound, but the noise of him gritting his teeth was audible.

“I was right,” Medic said, pulling away. “You do need stitches.”

“ _Merde.”_

“Oh, don't be such a baby. Wait here, I need to fetch some supplies and disinfectant. And don't even think of slipping out while my back is turned, Herr Spy, because you won't get very far with those injuries and when I find you I will make them worse.”

Medic barely registered Spy's indignant expression before he turned and walked away. The cabinet with the supplies he needed was nearer to the back of the room, and it took him longer than he would have liked to find everything. With the Medigun, conventional medicine was rendered almost obsolete. He never ran out of chances or reasons to cut his teammates open with his hands and tools, but putting them back together had been reduced to the quick and gloriously sterile process of Point and Shoot. It would be nice to get back to his surgical roots.

When he turned around, Spy's posture had noticeably deteriorated. He was slumped awkwardly to the side, leaning heavily on the examination table. One arm was wrapped around his wounded side, and the pained expression on his face spoke volumes about his condition. When he glanced up and saw that Medic was looking at him, he attempted to straighten up.

“ _Dummkopf,”_ Medic chided, hurrying over to him. “Why didn't you say something? _Nein, nein,_ hold still. Lift your arms – slowly, slowly – take a deep breath for me, if you can.”

For once doing as he was told, Spy sucked in a shaky breath through his teeth, then choked when it caught in his throat. Medic watched his chest and side closely.

“We need to wrap this before treating anything else,” he said, reaching for the roll of bandages he'd brought over. “I'm going to need you to sit as straight as you can and keep your arms out of the way, keep taking deep breathes. How bad is the pain?”

“I've experienced worse,” Spy said with a grimace, slowly straightening himself. He lifted his arms as instructed and Medic stepped closer to him, wrapping his arms around Spy's body and looping the bandage around his black-bruised chest.

Medic used up the whole roll, binding it as tight as he could while still allowing Spy to breathe. It was odd, to be this close to the man. Close enough to smell his cologne beneath the lingering stench of ash and tar. Medic generally kept to his own personal space, and Spy was notorious in his avoidance of others. And while it was true, Spy had been under Medic's knife on more than one occasion, there was something to be said about this particular type of closeness. A sort of clinical intimacy.

“Take a breathe, as deeply as you can,” Medic instructed quietly after securing the binding, taking a step back to look at his handiwork. He watched Spy's chest and stomach expand as he inhaled, making sure everything moved as it should. The bandages pulled tight across his ribs, held, and then stretched back into shape as he exhaled. Medic was satisfied.

“ _Gut,_ that should make you more comfortable until I get the Medigun back from Engineer. Here, take these.”

He held out his hand, with two little white tablets sitting in the well of his palm. Spy regarded them with suspicion.

“What is it?”

“Ibuprofen.”

“What?”

“It's a painkiller.”

Spy practically recoiled.

“I don't want your drugs,” he said, waving Medic's hand away. “I prefer to work with a clear head.”

“It isn't a narcotic, Spy, please. It's an anti-inflammatory and it's stronger than aspirin. I'm not going to let you sit here and grit your teeth through the pain because you're too proud to admit that it hurts. Take the pills, _bitte,_ so we can move on.”

Medic glared at Spy, and Spy glared right back. Without breaking eye contact, he took the pills, shoved them into his mouth, tossed his head back, and swallowed them dry. Medic sighed.

“I was going to offer you water, you know.”

“Just get the stitches done,” Spy snapped. And then, “Please.”

He only flinched once while Medic disinfected the wound and the area around it. The blood that had dripped down his neck was starting to flake, and his hair was starting to mat together as the blood in it dried. Medic worked slowly and carefully. It had been over a year since he'd actually gotten to stitch someone up, and he wasn't going to rush it. Threading the needle reminded him of that old adage about riding a bicycle; you never forget how.

The wound was half sutured when Spy spoke again.

“How much do you know?”

“Hm?”

“About me. How much information was in the file you read?”

His voice was quiet. Almost soft. Medic couldn't see his face.

“Enough for me to complete my work without killing you.”

“Do you know my name?”

Medic completed the stitch he was working on.

“ _Ja.”_ He paused. “Do you know mine?”

“Of course. I know everyone's name. But that is different, you-”

“How is it different?” Medic demanded coolly. “You fear that I will use this information against you? Use it to track you down or sell you out, or blackmail you. Would you do that to me?”

“If the circumstances were-”

“Would you do any of it _willingly?”_

Spy hesitated.

“... _Non_. But if the circumstances demanded, then yes. If it was my life for your name, I would give it without hesitation. And there are certain things that I am prepared for. Conditioned for. If I were too be tortured for information, I could resist long enough to escape or to be rescued. You have no such training, and my identity would fetch rather a large-”

“What makes you think I've never been tortured?” Medic asked quietly, leaning back to look at Spy over the rims of his glasses. Spy stopped, mouth hanging open and stared at him. Medic returned his attention to the last few stitches.

“If you know as much about me as I think you do, Herr Spy, then you should know better than to think I am unfamiliar with the more... _unsavoury_ methods of interrogation. We are both men capable of keeping secrets. So please, at least attempt to believe that yours are safe with me.”

He finished the suture with a small flourish, neatly tying off the thread and snipping away the excess. The result was a row of neat, tight stitches behind Spy's ear, nearly invisible beneath his hair. Medic put the rest of his supplies down and took a step back. Spy was looking at him.

It was a calculating look, one that Medic had found leveled at him many, many times in his life. The look of someone realising they had underestimated him. Perhaps he'd said too much. Perhaps he'd given Spy more credit than was due, in terms of looking into his past. It would be a mistake to think the man in front of him could not be a threat simply because they wore the same team colours. But Medic respected him. And from what he could see in Spy's eyes, some of that respect was being returned.

Medic blinked, and the moment was broken. He removed his glasses to clean them with the edge of his waistcoat, and when he looked up again Spy was gingerly getting to his feet.

“May I get dressed, or is there anything else you care to poke and prod at today?” he asked, and his sneer was ruined by the fact that he winced. Medic frowned at him.

“Don't tempt me, or I just might think of something invasive.”

Spy muttered something, again in French, but made no further remarks. He pulled the pile of his neatly folded clothes toward him across the table and began to get dressed. He waved away Medic's offer of assistance before he could voice it.

“I'll manage,” he said tersely, shrugging on his shirt with mild difficulty. He buttoned it slowly, and didn't even bother trying to tuck it into his trousers. His tie was loosely draped around his neck, and he made an expression of disgust when he picked up his mask and saw the dark, crusted stain on the side.

“ _Merde._ I liked this one.”

“Are they not all the same?” Medic asked, watching Spy pull the ruined mask over his head with a delicate shudder. The fabric did little to hide the sharpness of his features. He shrugged.

“Similar, perhaps. But this one was more comfortable than some.”

He finished making sure it was on straight and tucked neatly beneath his collar, then took a deep breath. Straightening his shoulders with a noticeable wince, he nodded sharply at Medic.

“Thank you, _Docteur,_ for your assistance and your confidentiality. I... appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Medic said at once. “As I said, you are my patient. All your secrets are very safe with me, Herr Spy. Just as I trust mine are safe with you.”

He smiled lightly at Spy's narrowed eyes and patted him good naturedly on the shoulder.

“Now, perhaps next time you are on the ramparts you will be more careful about watching your step, _ja?”_

Watching Spy's expression twist into one of outrage was immensely satisfying.

“ _I did not –_ nevermind. Think what you will, it matters not. I'm leaving. Goodnight, _Docteur.”_

Medic watched as Spy turned on his heel and limped away, pushing the double doors open with a pained and undignified grunt, before cloaking himself and vanishing into a shimmer of thin air. Medic sighed.

He definitely tripped.


	2. In Ignorance

Spy had _not_ tripped.

He knew every inch of the old base. Every step, every scuff in the floor. It was as close to a home for him as anywhere could be, if only be virtue of being where he spent most of his time. But it was definitely familiar to him.

From where he'd been standing at the top of the stairs, there were no obstructions or railings. There was a flat, wooden landing with three walls, a door to the outer ramparts, and an open shaft that led down the rest of staircase. There wasn't anything to trip over. Something – _someone_ – had pushed him. Hard, between his shoulder blades, and sent him tumbling down the stairs. He knew what he'd felt.

Patched up and whole again, at the end of the day Spy retraced his steps.

He stood with his back pressed to the wall, surveying the small landing he'd been standing on the evening before. His eyes scanned the area, looking for clues or hints to the identity of his attacker. No crime was committed without evidence. And perhaps Spy was being dramatic in his assessment, but the principle held. There were two people on the landing last night. Himself, and someone else. All he had to do was figure out who it was, and then pay them back in kind.

Stooping quickly, he picked out a small bit of fuzz. Cotton, a high fibre blend, dark in colour. Pocket lint. Red. His.

Dropping to the floor, he located a small pile of ash. Clearly flicked off the end of a cigarette. He'd been smoking at the time. The ash was also his.

Spy examined the door that led outside. It was locked, as it always was before and after a battle. No signs that it had been forced or picked. No signs that it had even been opened recently. Spy frowned.

He descended the stairs slowly, keeping his back to the wall, following the path of his fall. His eyes narrowed when he found a bloodstain on the edge of a step nearly halfway down, no doubt caused by the side of his skull cracking against it. His head throbbed at the memory.

Medic had patched him up well and fixed most the damage when the new and improved Medigun was returned to him. But the stitches had to be removed manually, and the wound reopened. Another uncomfortable half an hour spent unmasked in the infirmary. And while Spy initially doubted Medic's claim to be aware of his identity, he had to admit the man didn't seem at all surprised or intrigued by his features. If anything, the doctor made a point of averting his eyes.

Distracted by his thoughts, Spy didn't notice the little filter until it was crushed under his heel.

Cursing, he slowly lifted his foot and looked down. Squashed now, were the remains of a burned-down cigarette cartridge. He stared at it with narrowed eyes and gently picked it up between his gloved thumb and forefinger.

Spy hurried back up the stairs and knelt next to the pile of ash.

He placed the remains of the cigarette next to it and reached into his pocket, lighting one of his own. He took a couple quick, deep drags before pinching it out, letting the accumulated ash settle into an identical pile next to the original. He got down on his hands, putting his face close to the floor, and stared at them. Spy gave an experimental sniff. He knew the scent of his own ash. Knew it just as well as the scent of his mother's perfume, and the air of the city he grew up in. He had carefully cultivated his own personal blend of tobacco and spices, and paid an exorbitant sum of money to have them crafted and shipped to him. There was no mistaking that scent.

And the other pile did not match it.

“BLU Spy in the base,” he murmured to no one.

 

* * *

 

“ _Merde.”_

The rocket caught him straight in the chest. A lucky shot, he told himself, to save his wounded pride. He felt the precise moment he exploded, and the brief, agonising seconds before the pieces of his body were claimed and recompiled by the Respawn system.

Spy hated Respawning. It never failed to turn his stomach or leave his head spinning for at least a few minutes. Sometimes, like today, where he seemed to die every single time he set foot outside of the base, it resulted in a state of semi-permanent nausea and vertigo until the end of the match. He'd never heard any of his teammates complain of any such after effects. Everyone threw up after their first time through Respawn. That was a given. But apparently he was the only one who continued to suffer.

He stumbled out of the Respawn Room just in time for the Administrator to announce that the enemy had taken their Intelligence. There was a pop behind him, and Engineer materialised into the space Spy had just been occupying. The man looked down at his empty hands.

“Dag nabit.”

“Problems, _Labourer?”_ Spy asked casually, leaning back against the doorway. If the Engineer were a lesser man, Spy would have claimed that he jumped. As it was, he simply looked at him and straightened the hardhat atop his head. Even behind the goggles, Spy could tell that he was glaring.

“Damn Spy got me in the back,” he grumbled. “Took out my dispenser, then my sentry, then got our briefcase.”

“He raided your nest, as it were?” Spy offered with a grin. His humour was not appreciated. Engineer took a moment longer to glare at him before heading out. Spy caught up to him quickly. His legs were longer.

“My counterpart,” he began, as casually as one could in the middle of a war zone. “Was he acting oddly in anyway? Did he say anything to you?”

“Well it ain't like he chatted me up before he stabbed me,” Engineer said drily without breaking his stride. “ Not beyond the usual taunts and jeers, anyway. Why? Should he have?”

“ _Non,_ no, of course not. I was simply curious. BLU does seem to have become... awfully efficient lately, don't they?”

Overhead, the Administrator screeched their failure through the loudspeaker. Engineer's shoulders slumped.

“That they do.”

“Indeed.”

The Texan looked up at him suspiciously.

“You sure there ain't something you want to tell me, Spy?” he asked, turning to face him fully. “I know keepin' secrets is your business, but my business is to solve problems. If your secrets are causing my problems, I sure would like to know about it.”

Spy hesitated. It wasn't as though he didn't trust the Engineer. He was a smart man, and not one to be underestimated despite his easy smile and kindly drawl. But all Spy had to go on at the moment were suspicions and a bit of old ash. Hardly compelling. There might be nothing to it. But if there was...

“It's nothing,” he said, his tone and posture dripping nonchalance. “Nothing you need concern yourself with, _Labourer._ ”

“Well it's clearly enough that you said somethin' to me about me,” the smaller man said, shaking his head. “But if you're gonna be that way, Spy, I'm not gonna push. If there's something to be concerned about, I expect you to let us know. You're good for that much, at least.”

He turned and walked back inside the base, leaving Spy standing there staring after him. It was the closest thing to a compliment Engineer had ever paid him.

 

* * *

 

Spy prided himself on always being one step ahead.

In his line of work, information was the most important and lethal tool of the trade. Rumours could bring a city to its knees, and facts could topple entire governments. Incriminating documents could save a man's life just as quickly as they could end it, as he'd come close to finding out for himself many a time. Information was as a much a shield as it was a weapon, and right now Spy felt completely disarmed.

He had no idea what Medic was talking about.

Medic clearly  _thought_ Spy knew what he was talking about, but the truth of his ignorance was both embarrassing and worrying. He couldn't correct Medic. The man thought he had power over him that put them on equal ground. But the ground was painfully uneven from Spy's point of view.

Medic knew his face and his name, and alluded to knowing some of his past. Spy knew Medic's name, and a few details of his days before RED. But nothing stood out to him. Nothing seemed important or damning enough for the doctor to comment on, to bring specific attention to. His military history was of interest, of course, but hardly secret. Half the team had to least suspect it. Surely Medic wasn't so blind as to think such a thing wouldn't cross their minds. The man was more a soldier than Soldier was. And that was saying something.

But if not that, then what? What could he be hiding that Spy didn't already know?

Spy sat in the room that had been assigned as his quarters. He never slept here, of course. But when he needed to get away and not be disturbed, he'd found that this was often the last place anyone looked for him. He poured over his memory of Medic's file. The black and white photograph pinned neatly in the corner, the neat, looping handwriting that he recognised as belonging to one Miss Pauling. It was the Official File. Every merc had one, and Spy had read them all. Even his own. _Especially_ his own. All the relevant facts, all the important top-secret information concerning who all of them really were outside of this war were kept in neat, sealed little envelopes. He'd gained access to them much the same way Medic himself claimed to. Finagling.

Medic's file was about as bloody and soiled as anyone else's. His questionable ethics and experience in combat was how he got the job in the first place, so there were no surprises there. No outstanding enemies were listed. No reason for him to have any, either. By all accounts, he cleaned up after himself and covered his tracks well enough. For a mad doctor, he was surprisingly efficient.

Spy wracked his brains for any trace of the “secrets” Medic may have been referring to, and came up empty handed.

Perhaps the man had been toying with him. Or trying to comfort him, in the face of his own unmasking. Offering false facts to distract him. If that was the case, it had certainly worked.

But what of the BLU Spy?

That was not a distraction or an illusion. The man had been present inside the base, undetected, and had been bold enough to physically assault him. He had the lingering aches and pains to prove it.

The first issue was how he got inside without setting off an alarm.

That should not be possible. The same technology that allowed sentries to target enemies and teleporters to know who was standing on them should have prevented anyone from the BLU team getting with a fifty foot radius of the RED base without a klaxon sounding, and vice versa. The fact that he managed to slip inside and also leave undetected was extremely troubling.

The second issue was his mission.

Why had he come here? How long had he been inside, and what had he been doing? Spy had found no trace of him in the Intelligence Room, which should have been his primary target. He hadn't been spotted by anyone in the lower levels, and none of their gear had been tampered with. Spy had checked. Thoroughly. Sabotage was more than just a dirty trick, it was also grounds for termination. But there was no trace of it. No trace of anything missing, either. So what had the BLU Spy been doing?

And why the hell had he pushed him?

Spy was beginning to suspect he was being fucked with, and he didn't appreciate it. If this was a personal matter, then he intended to settle it like a gentleman. If it was a professional matter, however, then he had a lot of questions that needed answering.

Which may require going to _Her._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm thinking of doing an alternating POV thing, but i dunno how well that's going to work out in the long run. eh. we'll see.
> 
> feedback is always appreciated. i'll try to update again as soon as possible.


	3. Just Checking In

Medic was a man who liked his privacy.

His office, workplace, and sleeping quarters were all self contained and connected to one another. He showered alone, took care of his own laundry, filled out in his own reports at his own desk. Sometimes he took meals by himself, stopping by the mess hall long enough to load up a plate before retreating back down to his lab.

It wasn't that he didn't like his teammates. In truth, he was quite fond of almost all of them. But their constant presence in his life, even on his days off, could become very grating on his nerves.

Scout was the worst offender. By far.

Prone as the boy was to making a nuisance of himself, Medic learned the hard way that he was an easy target. In Scout's own words, he was “old and foreign and bothered by pretty much everything.” That didn't cover the half of it. He'd had taken to locking the infirmary doors to keep Scout from barging in with one of his disgusting energy drinks, talking too loudly and touching everything and upsetting the birds. He would stay until he got a reaction, or until he was forcibly removed.

Medic was getting a headache just thinking about it.

The past few weeks had been very trying, socially. With Scout's antics and Soldier's increasingly early wake up calls and recent insistence on “team building exercises," Medic was finding it hard to get anything done.

Soldier's idea of a “team building exercise” was to have all of them come out into the yard in the middle of a rainstorm, take their shirts off, and fight.

Demo had been all for it. So had Sniper, apparently, since he immediately turned and punched Spy in the jaw once the order was given. Pyro tackled a skeptical and unprepared Engineer, only to be dogpiled by Soldier himself. Scout took a swing at Heavy, slipped, missed, and knocked himself out when his face hit the muddy ground. Medic could hear Heavy laughing behind him as he turned and walked back inside.

And then there was Spy.

Spy was not subtle.

Not nearly as subtle as he thought he was. And he must have _thought_ he was being subtle, there was no other way to account for his behavior.

Even Soldier had noticed that Spy was acting strange – hence the mud wrestling. Sneaking around at odd hours, jumping out from around corners, rifling through closets and apparently empty rooms. He seemed to have completely gotten over his obsession with personal space. Coming up to people unprompted, shaking hands after matches and such. He patted Pyro on the back and got a delighted squeal and a hug in response.

It was a nightmare to encounter him in hallways. If going the same way, he would fall into step with his new walking companion and follow them to their destination. If heading in opposite directions he would stop and stare, smiling tightly until he'd been passed. Medic had a strong suspicion Spy would then cloak and follow him anyways, but he had no proof. With Spies, there was never any proof.

Spy had also taken to “checking in.”

“Just checking in,” he'd said, ducking his head into a room and squinting around suspiciously.

“Just checking in,” he'd say, walking around behind chairs and counters without getting anything.

“Just checking in,” he'd say, peering into the locker room and showers while fully clothed.

“Just checking in,” he said, when he pushed open the door to Medic's lab and froze, realising it was not unoccupied.

Medic sat behind his desk, fountain pen in hand, filling out one of the many nondescript medical forms currently stacked on his desk. Heavy was in the corner, in one of the waiting room chairs that he'd dragged in, reading. Spy's wide eyes flitted between them with something that was both suspicion and panic.

Heavy looked up from his book, over the thin crescent rims of his glasses, with raised eyebrows. Medic laid down his pen.

“Spy,” he said sternly, “What in Gott's name are you doing?”

Spy blinked at him.

“I – I was just ch-”

“ _Just checking in_ , yes, you said that. Now tell me what you're really doing.”

Spy glanced between him and Heavy. Heavy closed his book. Spy looked as though he might run.

“I was merely making sure that everything is as it should be,” he said, remaining in his frozen position. “Seeing that everyone is accounted for and whatnot.”

“Is there a reason they wouldn't be?” Medic asked, narrowing his eyes.

“ _Non,_ but – but one can never be too careful.”

“Is that so.”

Spy swallowed. It was so rare that Medic got to see the man flustered. Always so suave and collected. Now here he was, wide eyed and stumbling over his words. Medic would feel only a little shame to admit that he enjoyed it.

Spy opened his mouth, glanced at Heavy, and closed it again. He straightened up and cleared his throat, no doubt an attempt to appear composed. Medic fought the small smile trying to creep into his face.

“My apologies, _Docteur,”_ the Frenchman said, taking a half step backward. “I did not mean to disturb you. If you'll excuse me...”

The doors swung shut at his heels as he retreated. Medic watched him go, almost positive that he'd cloaked himself as soon as he thought he could get away with it. He sighed.

“There is something wrong with that man...”

Across the room, Heavy snorted.

“He thinks we do not notice,” the big man said, reopening his book and leafing back to his page. “He thinks he is strange enough, and that being little more strange will make no difference.”

“At this point I think only Scout hasn't picked up on it. Has he said anything to you? Do you know what's the matter with him?”

Heavy shrugged, a minor gesture made massive by his broad shoulders.

“He says nothing to me, even when not acting funny. Engineer said he was asking about BLU Spy.”

“The BLU Spy?” Medic asked, surprised. “Why would he be asking about him?”

Heavy shrugged again without looking up from his book.

“Maybe they are friends. Would not surprise me if Spies work together.”

“ _Ach._ That's all we need. _Two_ Spies.”

Heavy only smirked in response.

As much as Medic liked his privacy, and his solitude, he did get lonely at time. He was only human, after all.

Sometimes he would reach out. Spend an hour or two with the Engineer in his workshop, tinkering with their devices and exchanging hypotheses, or seek out Demo for a quiet evening discussing the occult. Medic took more than a passing interest in the mystery and magics that the Scotsman and his family seemed so wrapped up in, and Demo was only too happy to share. He had an impressive collection of tomes tucked away in his rooms. Most of the team was unaware of his penchant for lore. Medic had asked on a whim, after a particularly nasty encounter with what turned out to be Soldier's roommate – the team had collectively decided not to ask for details – and was pleasant surprised when Demo invited him in and brought out the books.

The man was very different when he didn't have a bottle in hand. Somber and soft-spoken, with a true passion for his heritage. Unfortunately, few people took the time to realise that.

The rest of the team – with the exception of Scout – tended to respect Medic's wishes and leave him to himself. Sniper had a healthy fear of him and refused to come with ten yards of the infirmary, after a certain incident that Medic would not formally admit to ever actually occurring.

There was comfort in solitude. His birds kept him company, cooing softly from the rafters as he worked, occasionally gliding down to land on his shoulder or his head. Many a time, they were all the companionship he needed.

But, he did enjoy the company of the Heavy.

Heavy was a large man, that much could not be ignored. He was strong and powerfully built, with an intimidating face and the tendency to speak only when it would be more effective than silence. On the battlefield, there was a terrible fire in his eyes. His approach was signaled as much by the boom of his laughter as much as the whir of his minigun. Heavy was, by all outward appearances, a brute.

And yet there he sat on the other side of the room, quiet and placid, with an absurd pair of reading glasses perched on his crooked nose as his passive paws leafed delicately through a worn copy of _Anna Karenina._

His thick fingers turned the pages lightly. The book itself was comically small in his hands, but Medic had never commented on this. In Heavy's company, he rarely commented on anything.

It was easy to sit like this, the pair of them, in companionable silence. Heavy reading while Medic filled out the endless stream of paperwork that seemed to come across his desk. Expense reports, scientific licenses, various patents and applications, newsletters, medic journals, he even got the occasional letter. But those were few and far between. Mostly, it was all work.

It was his job to keep up with the team's medical files, both a “lite” file and an “official” file. The lite version contained only job titles and physical descriptions, and was filled with only brief descriptions of any modifications or experiments a team member may have been part of. The official files were much more detailed. They contained names and contact information, as well as private personal details. Preexisting conditions, health concerns, in some cases medication needs. Every procedure he performed on them was collected in precise details and concise little notes.

Then of course there were the _other_ files.

But those were kept under lock and key, under the strictest level of classification. He wouldn't dare bring them out in the open, not even in front of Heavy.

Prior to Spy's interruption, Medic had been very focused on his work. “In the zone” was a phrase he'd oft heard used by both Sniper and Scout. But now he had left the zone, and looking down at the stack of unfinished forms he still had to get through, he felt nothing but a sense of resignation. It would be another long night with itchy eyes and an aching neck.

He reached for his pen and fumbled, feeling as the cartridge slipped from his grasp and rolled away from him. Medic cursed under his breath.

Already, he could feel the weakness in his hands. It always started in his fingers, seeping up his limbs like a poison. If he allowed it to continue unchecked, he knew that it would evolve into a feeling of numbness. A dull, desensitized haze at the fringes of his nervous system. It would be slow. It would take days to spread up his arms, and days more to settle in his neck and shoulders, and then his back.

And then it would start to hurt.

He clenched his hand into a tight fist on the desktop, frowning at it and the way it shook. Willing himself to relax, he made another attempt to pick up the pen. This time it worked. He sighed.

It would be time soon. Sooner than he expected. Perhaps that was a sign of something.

No matter.

It was almost ready. He wouldn't have to wait long.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i've pretty much decided on the alternating POV thing. because there are some things that HAVE to be from Spy's point of view and some things that HAVE to be from Medic's, and maybe some other characters will get their own bits of perspective later on. 
> 
> i don't know if i'm going to alternate every single time, but do expect frequent changes in perspective
> 
> thanks for all the comments and support so far!


	4. Classified

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long to get up

“Request denied.”

Spy blinked at the monitor.

“Excuse me?”

Through the static haze of interference and anti-tracing devices, he heard as the Administrator lit another cigarette and saw the cherry red of the embers distort across the screen.

“Do you expect me to repeat myself?” the voice said drily. Spy backpeddled.

“No, Ma'am, not at all, I – may I ask why?”

“The files are requesting are classified.” She took a deep drag of her cigarette. “As you are aware.”

“I've read them before.”

“Exactly. So you have no reason to do it again.”

Spy bit his tongue to stop from saying something he would very much regret.

She was an infuriating woman. But she was also much, much smarter than him.

“I'm not asking or anything that's been off limits before,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Unless... something has changed that I am not aware of? I would be told if I'd been demoted, would I not?”

Her answering silence was equal parts encouraging and not reassuring. Perhaps it was a stupid question. Perhaps he had presumed too much to begin with.

“Why are you so interested in this particular file?” she asked, and Spy heard the rustle of paper. She had it out in front of her, dammit. Just out of his reach. Taunting him with it. He gritted his teeth and hoped his image was similarly obscured.

“Curiosity. And to refresh my memory.”

“Interesting that your memory should fail in such a specific area.” She took another drag off her cigarette. “A pity. You were always so good with details.”

It would have stung less if she'd slapped him.

This was going nowhere. She was, to borrow a phrase from Scout, yanking his chain. He wasn't going to get that file. And now that she knew he wanted it, there was no chance of him getting anywhere _near_ it.

_Merde._

“And what about the BLU Spy?” he asked suddenly, remembering his other reason for calling.

“What about him?”

“Is he working under your orders?”

“Of course,” she said, and there was an edge to her voice.

“Then may I ask why exactly he's been snooping around our base without detection?”

The Administrator hesitated.

“That's also classified.”

_The lying hag._

“Are we under surveillance?” he pressed, leaning closer to the screen. “Is there a reason you don't have _me_ watching _them_ as well, or are those orders simply _classified_ as well?”

The silence from the other end of the feed was dangerously tense. He was pushing his luck and he knew it, but if the table were turned and he was caught in such a blatant lie there was no chance of her simply sitting back and accepting it. She hadn't ordered his BLU counterpart to do a damn thing, which meant this was the first she was hearing of it. And if she was nettled by that fact, _good._ Let her see how it feels to be out of the loop.

Spy heard the sound of a slow, rattling breath; an exhale. He could practically smell the smoke being blown in his face.

“Is that everything?” she asked, and Spy bristled. He was being dismissed. After all this, still with no answers, she was _dismissing_ him. 

He considered shouting. He considered demanding an explanation or a proper reason for this stonewalling. But Spy was not a stupid man. He learned the hard way, long ago, how to pick his battles, and this one was sure to be lost. Tiredly, he rubbed a hand over his face.

“Yes, Ma'am, that is all,” he said monotonously. “Thank you for your time.”

“Next time you call, make sure it's important.”

And with that withering remark, she disconnected the feed. Spy sat seething, staring at the static that now filled the monitor. He still had no answers, as well as several new questions. This was how it always went with her, of course, he supposed he ought to be used to it by now.

Spy had worked for the woman known to most as The Administrator for many more years than were officially recognised on his contract.

He knew her, after a fashion, as Helen.

But knowing her name didn't bring him any closer to actually knowing the woman herself, and he wasn't so deluded or arrogant to think so. She was both illusive and evasive. She gave him his orders, wrote his checks, kept his secrets and her own. But Spy would never be stupid enough to think of her as a friend. Though he had worked for her for over a decade, in one way or another, he'd only met her in person a handful of the times. These occasions usually followed something extremely unpleasant, or were the precursor to it. Being called to a personal meeting with the Administrator never boded well for anyone.

Yet now, despite his years of loyal service, despite everything he'd done, he was being treated like some common grunt. It was insulting.

The first time he met her, he was a young man. Well, much younger than he was now, and a shell of his former self, wasting away on a hotel room floor with a needle in his arm and the shadows of his past haunting his every conscious hour.

He still didn't know how she'd found to him. To be fair, he'd long since put effort into hiding. The seedy hole he'd sequestered himself for the past fortnight was paid for with almost the last of his money. The very last of it had bought the golden poison coursing through his veins, fogging his senses and his mind to a sufficient state of numbness. It was through this haze that he was brought to consciousness and first laid eyes on the woman in purple, sitting at the end of his bed.

He immediate reaction was to shoot her.

Even if his gun had been loaded, he would have missed. His arm was too weak and unsteady. The bullet, had there been one, would have lodged harmlessly in the ceiling above and too the right of her head. The gun fell uselessly from his hand and opened himself to his fate.

She offered him one of his own cigarettes without introducing herself and told him she had a job for him.

He slurred that he didn't work anymore. For anyone.

She said that was a shame. He was the best, after all, or so she'd heard. And it was true. He _was_ the best, years ago, before his own greed and arrogance got the better of him. Before he stopped caring who he worked for or what he was doing. Before eighty thousand lives were snuffed out in an instant because he was too foolish to read the intelligence he was transporting.

He swore he'd never work again. No spying, no sneaking, no treason or sabotage or assassination. For the past four years he'd been living on the streets, from hotel to greasy hotel, digging into his emergency caches and throwing his blood money away on drink and drugs and women and men. Anything to keep him numb. Anything to let him sleep, without seeing that blinding flash, that brilliant cloud of fire and death that the newsreels showed over and over.

The woman in purple told him that working for her would be different. No one would die. No one would suffer. No one would ever know who he was.

He'd heard that before. Someone always died, someone always suffered, and it didn't matter if anyone knew who he was. _He_ knew.

He told her, in fewer words, that he wasn't interested and wanted to be left alone.

She sniffed disappointedly, but didn't press the issue further. Before standing, she finished her cigarette – _his_ cigarette – and left her card on the moldy pillow at the head of the bed.

“It really is a shame,” she told him. And maybe he was too high, but it sounded like she meant it. She stood up, walked to the door, and closed it behind her. He slipped back into his stupor and went to sleep.

Three years later, when the money had run out for good and his skin was crawling with need, he dug the card out of the very bottom of his case and prayed as he dialed.

Their second meeting took place in a small office. Clearly a front, and a poor one, but it served its purpose. He sat across from the woman in purple, who this time called herself The Administrator, and tried to hide his shaking while she explained what his work would entail.

He started as an assistant. It was an exercise in trust, for both parties. He fetched and organised files, gathered information, lied and stole and haggled and threatened. He never got his hands dirty. Not literally. He was very specific about that particular stipulation, and surprisingly she never made any demands that he was unwilling to meet. He worked hard. Worked his way up the ladder, as it were, and learned as much as he could about the woman who paid his wages. It wasn't much. By the time a year and a half had passed, the only significant details he had learned were her first name and the brand of perfume she used. Everything else was a mystery.

By the time five years had passed, he knew the inner workings of the company. He knew of the two brothers and their so-far eternal feud. He knew of Mr. Saxton Hale, to whom he made frequent phone calls and endured one memorable and uncomfortable lunch meeting with, and his connection to the whole ordeal. He knew that he, in the larger scheme of things was unimportant. And he knew, without having any proof to back it up, that Helen was the one who was really in charge. “Playing both sides” didn't even begin to cover what she was doing. And he admired her for it.

When she called him into her office that day, he thought he was going to be fired. He thought he was going to be killed. A pretty young woman with dark hair and thick glasses stood attentively next to the Administrator. He later learned that she was his replacement. She smiled at him as he sat down. This was not reassuring.

A thin envelope sat on the desk in front of him. He mutely accepted when the Administrator offered him a cigarette, and held his breath when she told him he was being sent away.

The job was simple. She was building a team, and needed people to fill the very specialised roles she'd set out. There were between two and five candidates for each job, and it was his task to check to them out. He was to gather information, to figure out what sort of people they were, what were their strengths and weaknesses, which of them would work best together as a team. Three of the nine positions were already filled; the Pyro, the Medic, and the Engineer. All he had to find were the Sniper, the Scout, the Demoman, and the Heavy. The ninth spot, as the Spy, was reserved for him should he choose to accept it.

His only question was if he would have to kill anyone. When she told him he would not, he immediately accepted.

The envelope contained a plastic card registered to one of his aliases, and a plane ticket.

Six hours later, he was on a plane to America.

That was nearly five years ago. It took time to weed through the candidates, and even more time to sort out all of the contracts and arrangements that would have to be made for each individual. Getting everyone from their various locations all the way to New Mexico was no easy task, either. But it was worth it in the end.

Spy was forty years old now, and he could not believe how fucking stupid he had been.

He thought that his long service, his loyalty, had earned him some good will. He thought he knew what was going on. He thought he knew every company secret worth knowing.

Now, facing the blatant realisation that none of that was true, Spy wanted to hit something.

The files he'd been given, even the ones he had organised himself, all of that was now suspect. Knowledge was being deliberately kept from him. His colleagues, some of whom he had nearly come to trust, were now as good as strangers. That may have been a bit of an overreaction, but in his line of work one could never be too careful. Of the teammates he had recruited, he was at least sure of their backgrounds. The other three were different.

Pyro was still a mystery. They'd been brought in without any input from him, and had been heavily covered on their arrival. He'd never seen their face and their file was, ironically, destroyed in a fire. Pyro wasn't a concern, however. Dangerous as they were, he doubted their childish mind could be capable of treachery and deceit.

Engineer had family connections to the work, Spy knew that for a fact, but the man was undoubtedly brilliant. He wasn't given the job out of charity or nepotism. Though he was paid a substantial amount more than almost everyone else, Spy wasn't about to doubt that he'd earned it.

And then there was Medic.

Spy hadn't questioned it before. He'd never wondered how or why Medic was hired. After all, there can only be so many amoral, sadistic doctors who are also sane and physically fit enough to serve on a battlefield. Medic was also a genius in his own right. He invented his own Medigun. He, along with the Engineer, revolutionised the design of the Respawn system. He was constantly experimenting on himself and his teammates, proving a genuine desire for scientific advancement as well as an unquenching blood lust. At first glance, there was nothing more to it.

But staring at the snowy static on the monitor in front of him, Spy was beginning to suspect that there was rather a lot more to it than he had ever realised.

When, exactly, did Medic join RED?

How involved was he really with the inner workings of the conflict?

The file he'd been given, the supposedly _official_ file that he was no longer permitted to view, had been surprisingly sparse, on reflection. Height, weight, etc., things things that could be gleaned from a glance. A few lines about his upbringing and his education. A mention of military service as a young man, of starting his own practice, of leaving the country of his birth in search of greener pastures and fewer ethical restrictions.

But nothing to suggest any dark secrets hiding in his past. And that was the most infuriating thing at all, that Spy couldn't event think of seeing anything that was _worth_ hiding.

The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. Any of it.

Who _was_ Medic?

And what did the Administrator really know about him?

Spy switched off the monitor with a determined set to his jaw. Something was wrong here. Something was being kept from him, and he was going to find out what it was.

And maybe, just maybe, there was somebody who already knew.

 


	5. Wearing Thin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i mentioned i would be playing with the POV stuff, but i'm also toying with some of the differences between RED and BLU. so let's see how that works out.

Medic moaned.

It was a long, low sound, one that he only allowed himself because he knew no one else could hear it. The soundproof walls of his quarters allowed him a privacy he couldn't expect elsewhere in the base. He had the freedom to let loose without fear, and without shame. He couldn't have held this back if he tried.

He could feel it coursing through his veins. A familiar ache that would soon overtake his entire body. Spreading out from the injection site, through his left arm, across his shoulders, down into his chest and up his neck. He could feel his face flushing, the heat rising through his body. Deep in his stomach and his hips, surging through the thick veins in his thighs, all the way down the to the tips of his toes. A thin sweat formed on his brow and his back arched away from the chair.

It was too much. It was always too much, this burning ecstasy, rising and rising and building inside of him. He could feel his muscles tightening. The tendons in his neck and shoulders strained as he threw his head back, glasses sliding back into place along his sweat slicked skin. His hands clenched at his sides, teeth gritting together painfully. There, almost there, it was almost...

_There._

Medic exhaled in a rush, immediately sucking in a deep shuddering breath. Catching his breath was the hard part. The sensation had peaked, just as it always did, and the worst was over. But something was... off.

He frowned.

It came too soon. The high point, and the sudden crescendo from the bliss. It was supposed to last longer, to feel more... _something._

Medic opened his eyes and looked down at his hands.

The strength was back in his fingers. He flexed them, splaying his hand open, still marveled by it after all this time. And yet, it felt different somehow. Not weaker, precisely, but still noticeable.

No matter. It had worked. It had done its job. Perhaps a few simple adjustments to the dosage would suffice. Another problem for another day.

It took mere moments to clean himself up and put away his kit. This was a routine he was well familiar with. Years of use and handling had worn the leather case to its current soft, faded state. He snapped it shut and strapped it shut before tucking it back into its hiding place. Standing, he straightened his tie and rolled down his sleeve, neatly buttoning the cuff and smoothing out any creases. He pulled on his waistcoat, and then his coat. Before leaving the room, he took a moment to admire himself in the mirror.

But only a moment.

The day's battle would be starting soon. It wouldn't do to tarry.

 

* * *

 

Yesterday, Medic was complaining about his back.

Today, Spy had watched him haul Heavy to his feet with one hand while dragging a badly wounded Soldier out of the line of fire with the other. He showed no signs of difficulty or discomfort. He looked more upset by the fact that he had to do it in the first place than by the pain he was sure to be in.

It didn't many any sense.

There was very little about the doctor that made sense to Spy these days, since he'd started looking closely. “Changeable” would be a charitable word to describe his personality. He veered wildly between personable and outgoing and a maniacal shut-in. His smile was either infectious or terrifying, and his laughter had a way of creeping into the higher registers that raised the hairs on the back of a person's neck. There were no in-betweens or middle grounds with him. He was up, or he was down. There was no way of knowing which mood he would be in on any given day, or at any given hours, until one was close enough to see the white's of his eyes. Observing the doctor was a fascinating experience. And excellent practice. Spy should have done it years ago.

Medic was not an unattractive man. Spy doubted very much he was the only to notice that the doctor had a certain charm to him, a way of drawing the eye. In his flapping white coat, screeching in German at enemies and teammates alike, it was very hard to miss him.

Snipers rarely did.

But he was more than capable of taking care of himself in close quarters. The various saws he carried at his hip weren't for any medicinal purpose. They were for hacking his enemies limb from limb, and he did it with gusto. The bloodier Medic was by the end of a battle, the wider he would be smiling. He had his needle gun as well. A horrid thing of his own design that left more mental scars than physical ones. He only used it for last resorts, or as a scare tactic. Ranged combat was not his forte. He was much more dangerous up close. Hauling the Medigun and it's charge pack around all day had concentrated much of his strength in his upper body. Spy had seen Medic in the communal showers only once, after a match in the rain during which he slipped and rolled down a hill. He hadn't allowed his eyes to linger, but had been impressed with the doctor's physique nonetheless. For a man pushing fifty, he was in excellent shape. Spy had to wonder if that came from merely doing his job, or if there wasn't something more to it.

But there would be other times to dwell on that. Right now, Spy was on a mission.

He'd been waiting patiently for over twenty minutes, cloaked and hidden under the base of the secluded stairwell. His teammates would have said he was being idle, had they caught him, but they weren't the ones he was worried about. The BLU Pyro had come dangerously close to sniffing him out, but was fortunately distracted by his own team's hollering Scout.

Spy was watching the health kit. The mysterious packs of the same liquid that powered the vapours of the Medigun, ranging in size from a few drops to a couple mouthfuls, enough to patch a person up good as new. This one was of average size. Enough to restore a wounded person to fighting condition, or to tide over a badly damaged person until they could limp back to Resupply or get their Medic's attention. Spy was watching this one like a mother hen, cursing every time one of his own team would run in and pick it up. He didn't need it for himself. But it was very hard to set a trap without bait.

The Administrator was screeching the one minute warning when his waiting paid off. Into thin air, the health kit disappeared. Spy lunged.

Cloaked and caught off guard, the BLU Spy flailed wildly, struggling as Spy pushed him roughly into the wall. The man cried out as his arm was twisted roughly behind him, Spy's grip on his wrist shorting out his watch. When he decloaked, Spy could see the fear and confusion in his counterpart's eyes.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, fighting to free himself. “Kill me and be done with it.”

“Not until I get some answers from you,” Spy answered, shaking him slightly, using his free hand to hold his blade to the man's throat. “What have you been looking for, hm? Why have you been watching us?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Spy twisted his arm higher and was satisfied when he heard a pop. BLU Spy grit his teeth against a pained whine.

“You've been careless, _mon ami,”_ Spy taunted him, turning the blade so that he was forced to lift his head. “Taking a smoke break in enemy territory. What an amateur mistake.”

The man thrashed suddenly, trying to throw him off, but only succeeded in slitting the fabric of his mask against Spy's knife. He froze. Spy pressed his advantage.

“ _Who do you work for?”_ he demanded harshly. “Did _she_ send you? What information have you been gathering? How did you get into our base without setting off the alarms?”

“That's a lot of questions,” the man said, panting with the effort of holding still. Spy could see the sweat beading on his brow, and the pallor of his skin. His complexion was lighter than Spy's own while his eyes were darker, and he was noticeably younger. The amateur comment had been meant as a a jibe, but perhaps there was some truth to it. “Not sure if I'll have time to answer them all.”

“We'll make time. Now talk. I'm particularly interested in that last one.”

The BLU laughed.

“What, you mean you haven't figured out how? _Now_ who's the amateur?”

Spy kicked him hard in the back of the leg, driving his knee into the wall. For a moment, he worried someone might have overheard the scream. The man slumped, but had nothing to lean on but his own weakened arm and the blade of Spy's knife. He wet his lips, speaking quickly.

“I haven't been gathering information,” he said, wincing. “Nobody sent me, I swear it. It's just – it was just a bit of fun. A bit of practice. Sneaking in and watching you all, going back to my team and having a laugh. But I don't report to anyone, I just work for BLU. That's all.”

Spy frowned. That hadn't been the answer he was expecting. It could all be a lie, but he judged from the way the young man was trembling that it was not. For a mercenary, he had a surprisingly weak constitution. He leaned closer.

“Why did you push me?”

BLU Spy laughed again, higher this time.

“I didn't mean to. That corner is usually empty, when you came up I panicked. And let's be honest, _monsieur,_ you would have done the same were our roles reversed.”

“I would have known better than to alert the enemy to my presence,” Spy hissed, but loosened his grip fractionally. “You will never do it again. If I find you inside our base during ceasefire, I will hand you over to our Medic as an early Smissmas present. The two of you had so much _fun_ together last time, did you not?”

There were rumours around the RED base, spread mostly by Scout and Sniper, that the doctor had kept the BLU's head as a living trophy, a guinea pig to test the limits of the Respawn system. Spy didn't know if these stories were true. But judging from the way his captive froze and held his breath, they weren't entirely false. In the silence as they both processed this, Medic's high laughter could be heard filtering down from the battlefield. Spy removed the blade from his counterpart's throat.

“Keep your prowling to your on-duty hours,” he warned, “Or you'll spend the rest of your days as a paperweight. Do you understand?”

The man nodded frantically, eyes wide as he stared over his shoulder. Spy loosened his grip further.

“Good.”

With a single, precise thrust he drove his blade between the BLU Spy's shoulder blades. The death was instantaneous. He didn't even have time to scream before the Respawn claimed him.

Spy stepped back from his little corner and looked at where his counterpart's body would have crumpled.

He had made a deal with himself, long ago, to never again take a life. He'd taken enough. He'd killed enough. But the lines were blurred here, fighting the endless Gravel Wars. With Respawn and Mediguns and all manner of strange technology to keep a person alive, there was no real death. He still struggled with it. Wondering if it counted. If he had broken his oath to himself.

At the end of the match, watching the defeated enemy team file back inside of their own base, Spy caught sight of a trim figure in a pale blue suit appearing out of thin air.

It didn't count, he decided. You couldn't take a life if it could be given back.

 


	6. Eavesdropping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i am terrible at updating in a timely manner, i'm so sorry
> 
> i rewrote this twice before getting it to a place where i'm happy with it. so. i hope you're happy with it too.

The way Spy saw it, he had two options.

 _A_ : break into Medic's office in the dead of night and rummage around until he found something incriminating.

Or, _B_ : confront Medic directly, explain that there had been a misunderstanding about levels of security clearance, and demand to know what he was hiding.

Neither of these choices were particularly compelling or ran a very high chance of success. Breaking in ran the risk of getting caught and having his insides forcibly removed through his nostrils. But simply walking up to Medic and asking him about his deepest, darkest secrets was a whole different kind of idiotic.

And yet, to Spy's dismay, it was probably his best option.

“ _What makes you think I've never been tortured?”_

Such a revealing line, and said so simply. It had been what sparked Spy's interest in the first place, ironically enough. Medic's attempt to put them on equal footing, to put him at ease when he was at his most vulnerable, was what opened his eyes to the imbalance. Medic knew more about him than Spy thought he did. Conversely, Spy knew far less about Medic than he'd previously thought. And seeing as it was his job to know everything about everyone, the thought was more than a little distressing to him.

There was still the possibility that Spy was completely overreacting. That Medic had been toying with him, coming up with past tragedies just to put him at ease and stop him from fussing while the doctor worked. His “secrets” could be nothing more than fallacies. Little lies blown out of proportion.

But if there  _was_ something...

Spy's mind was made up. He was going to ask. Direct, nonchalant interrogation. Medic had opened up to him once before, and maybe if he was caught off guard he would do it again.

With his plan in place, Spy set to work immediately. All he needed to do was get Medic alone and in a situation where they wouldn't be disturbed. The battlefield, though it was the only place they were likely to run into each other, was out of the question. And he couldn't simply ask Medic to step out of the common room for a word with him. That would arouse suspicion. This would have to be discreet, and private. He would have to be careful.

And, as it turned out, patient.

For a man who valued solitude so highly, Medic was almost never alone.

In the mornings the doctor took breakfast with Heavy and a nearly catatonic Sniper. Before battle he ran strategies with Soldier – which consisted of him nodding along while the American screamed and used high explosives for props – or checked over the equipment with Engineer. Lunch breaks, again with Heavy, and sometimes Scout. In the afternoons he would tend to the team's lingering wounds from that day's skirmish, fixing everything that was too minor to be fixed by Respawn. In the evenings, in an uncharacteristic display of sociability, he joined everyone in the mess hall for dinner each night and didn't leave until the table was clear. He stayed up for a game of chess with Heavy, and one more than one occasion followed Demo back to his room. What they did in there was anyone's guess.

Briefly, Spy entertained the the idea that Medic's “secret” was that he was a homosexual. Spy himself was no stranger to the company of men, and wouldn't deny it if he were to be asked. A few teammates _had_ asked, and one or two had even taken him up on his offers. Medic was not one of them. Not to mention the hushed, wildly speculative rumours about his apparent wife. Medic wasn't married, Spy knew that much as a fact. But if he had a preference for other men, he hid it well. Demo, certainly, did not care for men in that way. Spy decided it would be safe to cross that theory off the list.

Then there was the entire, infuriating day the doctor spent with Pyro, following them around and keeping them company. He did this some times. He and Engineer, and occasionally Soldier, would take turns babysitting the mumbling abomination to keep them from getting too antsy and burning the whole base to the ground. They were the only ones not completely repulsed by or terrified of the masked menace. Even Heavy, large and fierce as he was, wanted nothing to do with the thing.

Spy waited in the background, through three excruciating episodes of something called  _Star Trek_ , for the little firebug to let go of the doctor's arm. It didn't happen. Eventually he gave up.

An entire, wasted week passed by without Spy being able to get a single moment of Medic's attention. By this point, he was desperate. The BLU Spy was avoiding him at all costs, on and off the field, and Spy wasn't going to go crawling back to the Administrator and ask for a favour. His Plan B of taking the information by stealth was looking more and more appealing. When he finally got his chance, he almost missed it.

It was a loud, hearty dinner in the mess hall. The day's efforts had been victorious, and for once Scout's boasting was actually warranted. He was talking louder than usual, loud enough to drown out Soldier's praise and commendations, and everyone was having a good time recalling their favourite part of the battle. Personally, Spy enjoyed the breathy little gasp that had left the BLU Medic's lips before his heart stopped, but that was neither here nor there. Their own Medic was sitting quietly, listening to his comrades tell their stories and laughing along with everyone else. Spy wasn't watching him as closely as he should have been. But he picked up on the tightness of Medic's smile, and the way the warmth didn't entirely reach his eyes. Spy looked away, distracted by Pyro's frankly alarming hand gestures, and by the time he looked back Medic was halfway to the door.

A minute and a half later, Spy excused himself. He doubted anyone even noticed that he was gone.

He didn't know where Medic had gone. The bathroom would be the best guess, since Heavy hadn't pitched a fit about the man leaving. The common facilities were a short walk from the mess hall, and Spy moved at a brisk pace. He entered without knocking and promptly cleared his throat.

The room was empty.

Spy frowned.

He bent to check under the stalls, but all the doors were open. No one was in there but him. No sign of Medic anywhere.

Spy supposed the man might have gone all the way down to his quarters. It was a long way to walk to take a piss, but Medic had walked farther for stranger things. And it was more convenient, in a way. They were less likely to be barged in on there.

Spy turned on his heel and left the bathroom, walking quickly in the direction of the infirmary. He took a turn down a side hallway, a shortcut that would lead him by the control room. As he passed it, his steps slowed.

“ _...to be calling like this...”_

That was Medic's voice, coming from inside the control room. He was talking to someone.

“ _...wanted to check in … unprofessional...”_

Spy flattened himself against the wall and crept forward. Through the thick reinforced steel of the door, he could barely make out what was being said. He pressed his ear to the crack and listened hard.

“ _...cause to worry … are you feeling?”_

Faintly, a woman's voice answered him. Spy's jaw dropped.

Medic was talking to the Administrator.

He redoubled his efforts to hear her, inching as close as he dared, but it was no use. The room was deliberately soundproofed, exactly to prevent what he was doing right now. It was the only place in the entire base that one could get a hold of the main offices, either a representative like Miss Pauling or the Administrator herself. Until that point, Spy had thought himself the only one with access to her direct line. It seemed he was mistaken.

“ _...working properly … built an immunity … what you've noticed...”_

It was no use. Spy couldn't make out a thing being said. And standing uncloaked as he was, if Medic were to turn around he would certainly see Spy's shadow under the door. No, he needed an alternative.

Fortunately, Spy knew every inch of the base like the back of his hand. He knew, for instance, that if he cut around to the storage closet a few doors down and climbed on top of the munitions shelf, there would be an air vent that connected to the control room through which he could listen in.

So that's exactly what he did.

Getting up onto the shelf was precarious and took more time than he would be have liked. The shoes he was wearing were not meant for climbing. By the time he got into a position where he could hear, the conversation had changed. Medic's voice was urgent and irritated, no longer using the careful courtesy that Spy went to pains to maintain when talking with the Administrator. There was an edge to her voice that he recognised, but none of the venom behind it. He wedged himself into a semi-comfortable position on his back, head hanging over the side of the shelf with his ear next to the vent, and listened.

“...overreacting. This isn't the first time this has happened, surely.”

“ _Nein_ , but that's not the point, you aren't listening to me. If it _is_ something, then we need to be careful. If it's losing its effectiveness-”

“And how would you know if it was? It's been decades. Perhaps you're simply losing your touch.”

“Don't patronise me, Helen,” Medic snapped, and Spy barely held back a gasp. “This is my life's work. _Our_ life's work. I know what I'm talking about, and we both know what it means. I don't know what you hope to get out of being difficult, but I hope you understand what needs to be done here. I'm going to need time, and resources. Discreetly, of course, the same as last time. And if we can work together, this may be _the_ last time.”

Spy was holding his breath. He'd been waiting for the Administrator to shoot Medic down, either literally or figuratively, for daring to speak to her in such a way. But no killing blow came. The man talked, and she listened. Spy wished he could see their faces.

There was a tense pause, during which Spy was certain the Administrator was smoking. When she spoke, the edge was gone from her voice.

“You may be right. I've noticed it as well. Not to the degree which you described for yourself, but certainly a difference. I... Well, it means it isn't just you.”

Spy heard Medic sigh.

“I was afraid of that.”

“What do you need, Doctor? To fix it?”

“I'll send a list,” Medic said tersely, but his tone had lost some of its sharpness as well. “I won't need it all at once. Regular shipments will be necessary, however. And I will have to run trials.”

“Should I have a substitute lined up?” she asked drily.

“That won't be necessary. I know my limits. We may have to arrange a proper meeting, later in the process. I'll need samples-”

“I'll have them sent over.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Another pause, this one noticeably more comfortable. The Administrator sighed.

“Was there anything else we needed to talk about?”

“If I ask you to quit smoking, will you?”

“No.”

“Then, no. There's nothing else.”

“Good. You'll have your resources, Doctor, but the Australium shipments will have to be small. The reserves are being watched more closely nowadays. I'll get you as much as I can, but I expect you to be frugal with it. I haven't kept you out of trouble this long only for you to get caught because of a misplaced brick. I want your word that you'll use it wisely.”

“ _Ja, ja,_ of course I will. Waste not, want not. I get the message. Send it quickly, if you can, I want to get started on this right away.”

“We certainly don't have any time to lose.”

Softly, Medic laughed.

Spy remained motionless as the call was disconnected and the doctor stood to exit the room. He heard the door unlock, then quietly close, followed by the rhythmic clicking of well-polished boots disappearing down the concrete hall. Spy remained as he was, flat on his back on an industrial sized crate of bullets, and tried to make sense of what he'd just heard.

Medic and the Administrator were obviously close. Close enough that he could call her by name and not be immediately shot for it. Close enough to tease her about chain smoking. It was almost unthinkable. And if he hadn't just heard it for himself, Spy never would have believed it. In all his years of service, he had never once been spoken to with such warmth and courtesy. Whatever Medic had done to earn her favour, Spy was very interested in taking notes.

Aside from their familiarity, Spy was having a hard time processing what it was they were talking about. Something about losing effectiveness and building tolerance, needing samples. Needing Australium. Why would Medic need Australium? It was a metal, an element ore used in the technology of the teleporters and the Respawn system. Medic was a doctor and a scientist, yet he was asking for it in apparently large amounts, as well as other resources. Money, and time. Was he building something? A new Medigun? Was something wrong with the current models? Perhaps the healing vapours were losing their effectiveness, making it more difficult for the team members to survive a battle unscathed. But what did that have to do with the Administrator? And why, exactly, was she so willing to give out portions of the Mann Co. Australium cache with nothing more than a promise in return? What was her stake in all of this?

Spy's back twinged painfully, wincing him out of his thoughts.

He'd lost track of time, lying there thinking and giving himself frown lines. At least five minutes must have passed. And if no one had noticed him leaving the mess hall, they certainly would have noticed that he wasn't there by now. If he was very lucky, the creature they called Pyro wouldn't come looking for him.

Grunting at the stiffness in his neck and lower back, Spy carefully scooted his way down from the shelf, swearing at the jolt of pain that shot up his spine when his feet hit the floor.  _Mon Dieu,_ he was getting to old for this sort of work. Unfortunately, spies and assassins didn't have a lot of options in terms of fallback careers. He was made for this life. It was all he knew. And he couldn't deny it made the days more interesting, if not more fun. Right now, Spy was  _very_ interested in his job.

Slipping silently back into the mess hall, he resumed his place in the shadows at the back of the room.

Demo and the Engineer were engaged in a heated debate about what qualified as “comfort food” while Soldier now had Scout in a choke hold. Medic had returned to his seat next to Heavy, who now had a massive arm around the doctor's shoulders, watching as the young runner's face changed colours. Medic was smiling, engaging in conversation, otherwise acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. Some of the coldness was gone from his expression. He glanced at Spy briefly, apparently feeling eyes on him, and smiled warmly. Without thinking, Spy smiled back.

Plan B was officially in effect.

No matter what, he was going to get those files. No matter what, he would get to the bottom of this. Even if it killed him.

 


	7. For All Our Sakes

His hands were shaking. They were shaking, and he couldn't make them stop.

Medic's fingers were numb when he woke that morning. Stiff and cold, unwilling to bend or grip tightly. It took him half an hour to get dressed. Ten minutes alone were devoted to the buttons of his shirt and waistcoat, a simple task made even more difficult the more frustrated he became. His hands would not comply. Trying to pull on his boots, feeling them slip from his fingers again and again, he broke down into a swearing fit that would render even Scout speechless.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. He was supposed to have more time.

He was late to breakfast and found only cold scraps waiting for him. He ate with his hands. Toast, a couple pieces of bacon. Nothing that required him to battle with the silverware. Not in front of his colleagues. They couldn't see him like this.

The sensible thing to do would be to take the day off. Lock himself in his room and play sick, coughing through the door at anyone who came to check on him. He was in no condition to fight.

But Medic was an incredibly stubborn man. He suited up in the locker room along with everyone else and managed to heft his Medigun onto his back with only a little trouble. If anyone noticed him struggling with the straps, they didn't comment.

Soldier had plenty to say, however, when he couldn't locate the small switch on the underside of the Medigun's barrel, costing them valuable seconds as their opponents bore down on them. Medic dropped the charge. Twice, and then three times.

For the first time in years, he felt himself getting winded as he ran. The burning in his lungs and stitches in his sides, his legs trembling beneath him. It was embarrassing. Infuriating. He could barely hold his weapon, barely keep up with even Heavy's sluggish pace. At one point he got separated from him team and found himself in a secluded hallway. He slumped heavily against the wall, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow. He inhaled deeply, and knew he couldn't stay there forever.

At the end of the day, amid the glares and grumbles of his teammates, Medic slunk out of the locker room without bothering to unload his gear. He dumped it unceremoniously on the floor of the infirmary and began to undress.

Medic liked his showers hot. Scalding. Hot enough to sting if he stood still too long, to make his skin pink and tender. Hot enough to wash away the blood and grime and sweat from the day's little war. He hung his head under the stream of water, letting it burn a path down the back of his scalp and neck, dribbling down his aching shoulders. If he held his hands directly under the stream, he could make them feel almost warm.

He was supposed to have more time.

 

* * *

 

The first shipment of Australium arrived the next day, with the delivery of the month's rations. Wrapped in inconspicuous brown paper and stamped with his name, it was handed to him by an oblivious Engineer as the special orders were parceled out. As good as her word, Helen had sent him only a small amount. Not even half a brick. It wasn't much, but it was enough to get started.

In his laboratory proper, the secret room where he did all of his most important work, Medic unwrapped the precious package.

He felt better already, just to hold it in his hands. Australium was a remarkable thing. The raw ore itself possessed properties that had driven the Australians to create the most technologically advanced empire on the planet, but it was also highly unstable. Unregulated contact did terrible things to a person. One only had to look at Saxton Hale, and the more industrial areas of Australia to understand that. But once the element was refined...

The possibilities were endless.

Medic looked at the beaker of liquid fermenting across from him, then down at his hands. The shaking had subsided, for the most part, but he was still weak. His joints were beginning to ache.

_A few days more,_ he told himself.  _Just a few days and it will be ready. I can hold on until then._

He wondered how much Helen had not told him. How badly she was affected. If she suffered the same weakness, suffered alone in her big, empty office. If her hands shook as she flicked the ash from the ends of her cigarettes.

She would never tell him. She could be on her death bed, gasping for air, and her last breath would be spent telling him to mind his own business. It would be funny to him, if weren't so sad. After all these years, all that they had accomplished together, and still she didn't trust him. Not anymore than he trusted her.

Their alliance had always been an uneasy one. It was born out of necessity rather than friendship. The friendship – and calling it that sounded absurd, even to his own ears – had come later, just as uneasily. Video calls to check in, mission reports, status updates. Someone, probably him but he couldn't remember, cracked a joke. It broke some of the ice. Eased the tension. They worked better together after that, but it still took many years to get to the point they were at today. To him, she was Helen, and he was always “Doctor.” Sometimes, if things were going very badly, she would call him by name. Nowadays, it was the only way he ever heard anyone say it.

Medic looked at the chunk of Australium cradled in his palm and sighed. Such a small thing. And yet, if he had his way, if everything went  _just right..._

He could save them all.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Docteur?”_

Medic bolted upright in his chair. He looked around wildly, realising how dark the room had grown around him. He must have fallen asleep while running calculations.

“ _Docteur,_ are you here?”

Spy. Spy was outside looking for him.  _ Scheiße _

This laboratory of his was top secret. No one could know of its existence, much less its location. If Spy was standing in the infirmary, and it sounded like he was, then there was no way for Medic to safely exit the secret room without revealing it.

He stood, as silently as he could, and crossed to the door. There was a slit between its edge and the wall, just wide enough for him to see through. He pressed his eye to it and squinted.

Spy was across from him on the other side of the room, looking around with a confused expression on his masked face. He was holding something in his hands, but Medic couldn't make out what it was. Spy turned, facing away from the wall Medic was currently trapped behind, and the doctor took his chance. Quickly and quietly he slid open the door, stepped out, and closed it behind him. He cleared his throat. Spy whirled around to face him.

“Where did you –?”

Medic did his best to make his expression quizzical.

“I was only in my room,” he said, gesturing to the closed door several feet to his left. “I didn't hear you come in. Is there something I can – oh.”

Now, Medic could see what it was that Spy was holding. A plate, with a bowl of something steaming on it, as well as a generous slice of bread and a pile of assorted vegetables. Medic blinked at it, then looked up at Spy.

“ _Was ist das?”_

“You weren't at dinner,” Spy said, looking more uncomfortable by the moment. “Or breakfast. I – we weren't sure if you'd eaten today, so...”

He held out the plate pointedly. Medic hesitated, then stepped forward and reached for it.

“You didn't have to do bring this all the way down here,” he said, taking the plate from Spy's hands and looking down at it. Buttered bread, steamed vegetables, and the bowl held what looked like a hearty meat stew. It must have been Demo's turn to cook again. He looked back up at Spy. “But I appreciate it. I'm not sure that I've eaten today either, to be quite honest. Heavy usually reminds me, but I suppose – well, he has other things to worry about.”

A small frown flashed across Spy's face, gone as quickly as it had appeared. His hands, now empty, fell awkwardly to his sides. He looked very much like he wanted to say something.

Medic had been noticing Spy more and more lately. Rather, he noticed himself being noticed by Spy. It had become common to look up and find a pair of dark eyes trained on him from across the room, or to feel something brush past him in the hall but find no one there. Spy was a man notorious for his disdain toward others, always the first to balk at any suggestion of group activity. To find himself being paid special attention by the man was not entirely encouraging.

He didn't feel threatened, however. He had no fear that Spy wished him harm. Rather, he got the distinct impression that Spy wanted something from him, but was too scared to ask.

If Medic weren't so tired, he might have snapped at Spy, told him to speak up and get it over with and stop lurking where he thought no one could see him. But Medic didn't have the energy for the argument that would surely follow such an action. Pulling teeth was easier than getting information out of the Frenchman.

The spoon rattled against the plate and Medic realised his hands were shaking again. He turned quickly toward his desk, suddenly overcome by a wave of vertigo. He would have lost his balance if Spy hadn't caught his elbow.

“ _Docteur?_ Are you alright-”

“Fine,” Medic said, pulling away from him. “I'm fine.”

“You're shaking.”

“I said I'm _fine.”_

For a moment, he thought Spy meant to reach for him again. His gloved hand hovered outstretched, then fell limply to his side. Medic breathed out a sigh that wasn't entirely relief.

“Thank you for bringing this to me,” he said slowly, nodding at the plate in front of him. He turned so that Spy couldn't see his face, or the way his hands still trembled. “It was... very kind of you, Spy.”

“You need to eat,” Spy said, drawing himself up a little straighter. “It's a necessity, not a nicety. You're only human.”

Medic let out a bark of laughter before he could stop himself. _Only human._ If only he knew...

“I suppose I should eat this before it gets cold.”

“I suppose you should.”

Medic glanced over his shoulder and was unsurprised to find those grey eyes narrowed at him. He sighed.

“Was there something else?”

Spy sniffed and looked away. Medic might have believed his indifference if not for the tightness around his mouth.

“ _Non._ Nothing. Enjoy your meal, _Docteur._ Hopefully it will improve your performance on the battlefield tomorrow. Some people count on your abilities, you know.”

Medic scowled.

“ _Goodnight_ , Spy,” he said firmly. The dizziness was starting to come back, bringing with it a wave of fatigue. The very last thing he need was to faint into his stew in front of Spy. He'd never hear the end of it.

The Frenchman seemed to get the message.

“And to you as well,” he said, taking a step backward. “Try to get some sleep, for all our sakes.”

Medic close his eyes, and didn't open them again until he heard the doors swing shut.

_For all our sakes._

What else could it all be for?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from now on, i'll be doing my best to update at least once a week, maybe twice if i have time
> 
> things are definitely picking up and i have a solid direction to work in. i appreciate all your support and encouragement so, so much, it means the world to me.


	8. Revelations (pt. I)

There was a particular phrase about _cats_ and _curiosity_ that kept coming to mind.

Spy knew he was being foolish. Reckless, even, if he was being truly honest with himself, but that had never stopped him before. Creeping around the base in the middle of the night – especially on nights such as this, when the sky was clear and the moon was bright and the creature called Pyro had patrol duty – was never wise. The chances of bumping into a teammate, one who already had reason to distrust him, was always a risk.

But tonight was his last chance.

The transfer orders had come in. At the end of the week, and on very little notice, they were all being shipped to Coldfront for an indefinite period of time. Another worthless pit for them to fight and die over day and and day out, only this one had the added bonus of being a frozen wasteland.

Most people had already started packing. Lots of warm clothing was being bought from in town or dragged out of old supply lockers. Sniper, inexplicably and red-faced, had begun quietly handing out scarfs and mittens and woolen socks with little crosshairs and snowflakes stitched into them. Everyone accepted them graciously and without comment, tucking them carefully in with the rest of their luggage. With no return date, there was no telling just how long they would be gone. Could be days, or it be months, and no one wanted to leave anything important behind in the off chance that it would be the latter. Spy had to act now.

The files. The goddamn medical files. He had to get them. He had to get them _tonight._

Medic would begin packing in the morning, clearing his work space and shuffling things around and making sure everything was in order before they left. He would take the files with him, Spy was sure of that. But trying to steal them while in transit would be suicide, and it would take ages for him to learn Medic's routine at the new base. He couldn't wait that long. His curiosity wouldn't permit it.

Medic, to the surprise of no one, had gone to bed at half past seven.

The doctor had been dead on his feet for the past few days, huffing and puffing as he jogged around the battlefield, grey-faced and sweating. He seemed exhausted from the moment he woke up. Spy was sure that without Heavy and himself keeping tabs on Medic's dining habits, he wouldn't have been eating at all. They weren't even sure that he was sleeping.

He said he was “working on something.” What, exactly, he wouldn't say, but Spy could guess. It was something to do with the Medigun, or the Respawn system, but his bet was on the gun. It had to be. After overhearing Medic's conversation with the Administrator, and finding that chunk of Australium in with the food supplies, he was convinced that Medic was building something. Something important, and something that could potentially affect all of them. And if that was the case, Spy was going to find out _what_ and _why._ And when he did...

Well, he hadn't really planned that far ahead yet.

He didn't bother with his cloak for this particular stretch of hall. If caught, he could simply say he was on his way to the bathroom. The cloak would come in handy, however, the deeper he got into the base and the closer to the infirmary.

There was no way of telling if Medic would really be asleep or sitting up working. The last time, Spy had gone prepared. The plate of food, while a genuinely thoughtful offering, was also his backup plan. It had worked, too. If Medic was suspicious of Spy's motives for bringing him food, he hid it well. But tonight Spy was empty handed, with only his wits and his weapons with him. He severely doubted he would have to use them, but it always better to be prepared. He loathed the feeling of naked weakness that came with being unarmed.

His plan was simple: sneak in, find was he was looking for, sneak out. Three steps, nice and concise.

It was also completely dependent on the assumption that Medic would be asleep.

Spy was sure he would be. If the dark circles under the doctor's eyes when he left the table were any indication, he would be out light a light, drooling into his pillow and completely dead to the world around him. And if he wasn't, then Spy would just have to get creative.

Breaking into the lab was embarrassingly easy. In his fatigue, Medic must have forgotten to bolt the door. Spy pushed it open cautiously, sticking his head inside and peering around for any signs of life.

The double doors swished shut silently behind him as he crept in, taking care that his footfalls made no sound on the tiled floor. The lab was dark. The only source of light came from the moon outside, streaming in through the narrow window set high in the far wall. He avoided the patch of light it made, sticking to the shadows in the event that he had to hide quickly.

Spy's eyes darted around the ceiling, looking for any signs of white winged menaces about to swoop down on him. The rafters were empty. The doves were probably all cooped up for the night, out of his way and sound asleep. Good.

He didn't come here blindly. He had some idea of where to look for what he was after. Medic's desk was his first target. The large, antique piece of furniture was where Medic did most of his paperwork, and the drawers were deep enough to hide any manner of secret compartments. In the dark Spy could see it stacked high with scattered papers and open notebooks. He ignored these. Even in his current funk, Medic would never be so careless as to leave top secret documents just lying out in the open. The notebooks were all in shorthand, anyhow.

The top few drawers were unlocked. They contained all manner of pens and pencils, markers, jars of ink, jars of liquids that were _not_ ink, bits of loose leaf paper. Legal pads and a collection of yellowing medical journals, a couple old bank statements with all the important information blacked out by thick lines of ink. None of it was of use. None of it was vaguely interesting.

The first locked drawer that Spy picked open contained something so horrible he nearly slammed it shut. It was all he could do to keep from gagging as he worked on the second drawer, praying silently that its contents would be safe and normal or _not moving._

The large bottom drawer on the left was surprisingly empty. At the bottom there was a stack of letters written on heavy paper in faded ink. The creases were worn and the edges were fraying; they had clearly been read more than once, and the handwriting did not belong to Medic. Again, everything was in shorthand. German shorthand. After squinting ineffectually at the first couple lines, Spy gave up. He placed them back into the drawer and reached inside again, feeling around for anything he might have missed.

In the very back, he found a framed photograph of a family. A woman was sitting in the middle of the shot with a young child on her lap, while the man he presumed to be her husband stood behind her with his hand on her shoulder. She looked about thirty, with soft features and kind, tired eyes. The child was too young to have any distinguishable gender, aside from the thick mop of dark hair growing straight up on top of its head. The man was tall and black-bearded, older than his wife. He had a very severe look to him, something that registered to Spy as distinctly unkind.

The style of their hair and clothing put them in the late nineteenth century. There was water damage to most of one corner, blotting out whatever had been written at the bottom of the picture. Spy stared at the people's faces in turn, trying to pick out specific features. Perhaps this was Medic's family. The child seemed too young to be Medic himself – the doctor wasn't _that_ old, no matter what Scout thought – but it was possible he had a brother or sister. If the bearded man was Medic's father, he favoured him greatly.

Spy put the photo back and slid the drawer back into place. Now there was only one left. And while it wasn't what he was looking for, its contents were thoroughly interesting.

Drawings. Most of them anatomical, sketched in pencil and charcoal, stacked so high he could barely pull the drawer open. They were of excellent quality, so detailed they could have been mistaken for photographs in the right lighting. A complete rendering of a hand, minus the skin. A model of the human respiratory system, flayed open. A skull, half muscle and tendon and bone, half flesh and hair. Spy had no idea that Medic was such an artist. He was impressed. His flipped through the pages idly, noticing the way the images seemed to be out of order in terms of age. Some were smudged and faded, worn almost off of the paper while others were crisp and fresh and clearly new. It was as if they had been shuffled, or put in some order that only made sense to Medic himself. Spy was about to give it up and put them back when he flipped another page, and found himself staring at his own face.

He stared.

It was a candid rendering. It had to be, as he certainly hadn't posed for it. His own face, maskless, with half-lidded eyes and a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip, staring off to the side of the page. It was remarkable in its detail. The lines of his face were true to life, though more flattering than he expected. The scar on his jaw was faintly visible but there. The only problem was that his hair was all wrong. Much too short, shorter than he'd worn it in years. He'd forgotten how horribly his ears stuck out like that.

Spy wondered, suddenly, if this was based on the photograph Medic claimed to have seen of him.

He flipped the page and found himself looking down at the Engineer. Without his hardhat and goggles, Spy almost didn't recognise him. He was smiling, looking down as he always did when laughing at a joke he hadn't told. The next page featured the Demoman, staring straight forward with both eyes uncovered. The left was a dark, empty hole in his head, unnerving to look at for too long. Spy flipped the page again, this time to Heavy's face. There were several pages of Heavy, it turned out. In profile, with his ridiculous reading glasses perched on his nose. From beneath and the side, as if he were being looked up at. One page full entirely of rough sketches of his form, walking and running and sitting down. Spy wondered if they had been posed for or simply drawn from memory.

There was at least one drawing of each of their teammates, but no drawings of Medic himself. After that, there was only more anatomy. Bemused, Spy carefully tucked the drawing back into the drawer and slid it shut.

The desk was a bust. On to target number two.

Against the back wall next to the sink there was a filing cabinet, and Spy knew for a fact that that was where Medic kept all of the “standard” medical files. But what he was looking for was not “standard” by any means. He'd assumed, wrongfully it seemed, that the more important files would be kept separate.

He went straight for the bottom drawer and was completely unsurprised to find it secured with a padlock. The added measure only assured him he was on the right track. He picked it easily, wincing when it popped open with an audible click. He waited, holding very still, and listened for any signs of movement. When a minute passed in silence he went back to work.

There were two files for every member of the team. The first set were thin and concise, only a few sheets of paper and a head shot clipped in the top corners. Quickly, Spy checked his own. His picture was the one he had posed for at the beginning of his contract, mask on, a bored expression on his face. These were not the files he was looking for.

The second set of files were much thicker. Several pages of standardised forms with all of their information filled out, along with little anatomical diagrams covered in notes and markings. Records of all the “procedures” they had been a part of. Medic's handwriting was atrocious. Spy couldn't tell everything was written in German or English or some muddled combination of the two. Clearly, the doctor never counted on anyone besides himself ever getting access to these files. Which meant Spy was on the right track.

He stared longingly at the folder labeled “Pyro” before reminding himself of the task at hand. He pulled Medic's file out of the drawer and flipped it open to the first page.

Medic was not smiling in his photograph. He wasn't exactly frowning, either, but he didn't look very happy with whoever was behind the camera. There was less grey in his hair, and fewer lines on his face. He looked younger than Spy had ever seen him, which was interesting. They had joined RED around the same time, and he remembered meeting the man for the first time at the train platform, being surprised by the doctor's age and the strong accent and handshake that accompanied him. Medic was, to borrow a phrase from the Engineer, “no spring chicken.”

But photos could be deceiving, and the angle was rather flattering. In the low lighting, Spy couldn't be sure what he was seeing.

Medic's file was written in his own handwriting, which immediately made it suspect. While the man kept meticulous notes, there was no telling how much his personal bias could have skewed his views. Everything looked rushed. Spy was surprised to see, if he was reading the scribbles correctly, that Medic's first test subject for the Über upgrade had been himself. There was a long list of crossed out data and a few rough sketches of the device that had been implanted into all of their hearts. It still gave Spy the creeps. He never would have submitted to the procedure without the Administrator's assurance that it was absolutely necessary. He didn't see how. Only once had he been on the receiving end of the charge, and that was while disguised as the enemy Demo. It was a harrowing, violent experience that left him out of breath and with a periodic heart murmur that persisted to this day, no matter how many times Medic offered to fix it.

Spy frowned as he looked through the rest of the file. It appeared complete, but there were obvious chunks of information missing. There was nothing about his past medical history before RED. Only fleeting mentions of his former place of work. The inconsistent spelling of both his practice and his apparent university appeared too often to be simple typos. Alarm bells were going off in Spy's head. Hastily he flipped back to the first page, the line with Medic's name printed across it.

It was scrawled nearly illegibly, with a large black blot of ink attached to the first letter of his surname. Almost as though someone had held the pen against the paper for a period of time while deciding what to write.

This file was a fake.

He could have hit something. All this time, all this effort, and he was holding a forgery. A poorly constructed, hastily organised forgery that had fooled him for the past several minutes due to his own eagerness. He'd thought – foolishly, so _stupid_ – that it would be easy. In and out. That was the plan. Well, now what?

He shoved the file back into place more roughly than was wise and felt -

And felt something shift.

Spy held his breath. Gently, he laid his gloved palm on top of the rows of files, and pressed down.

Yes. Something shifted. Something gave, just slightly. A false bottom. There was a false bottom to the drawer, there had to be.

He stuck his whole arm into the drawer and felt around for a gap or something to grip onto. It probably would have been easier if he removed all the files on top of it, but Spy had no patience for that.

At the very back, he found a finger-sized hole cut into the metal and grinned. He was right. They were here. All this ridiculous sneaking and snooping would be over. All the questions, about his teammate, about his employer, about just what had been going on under his nose would be answered. He hooked his finger into the hole and pulled.

Behind him, someone coughed.

 


	9. Revelations (pt. II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note the rating change

Spy whirled around so fast he nearly unbalanced himself, and would have if his arm wasn't caught in the drawer. His eyes darted wildly around the darkened room and found it -

Empty.

Empty, save for himself. Not a soul in sight.

He held very still. Watching the shadows for any signs of movement, any hint of a faint shimmer in the air. The BLU Spy. It had to be. It was the BLU Spy, watching him, following him for god knows how long, now standing just out of sight. There was a gun aimed at his head. The hairs on the back of Spy's neck stood up under his mask. He could feel it. He could feel himself being watched, feel his own death coming for him -

There was a scraping sound, somewhere in front of him, but he couldn't see anything. The cuff of his sleeve was caught on the lock. In the seconds that it took to free himself, Spy held his breath.

His head whipped around at the sound of footsteps.

They were close by, but muted, almost as though they were coming from outside. His eyes snapped to the small windows set in the double doors, expecting someone to burst in and catch him red handed.

 _Please let it be Pyro,_ he thought for the first time in his life. _Let him check the room. Let him catch the intruder that isn't me._

But no one was outside. No one had killed him yet, either, which was... odd. Cautiously, he stood up.

There was that scraping sound again, to the right. The door to Medic's room was closed, but it hadn't come from in there. No, it was further forward. Almost as if-

It was coming from inside the wall.

Spy narrowed his eyes, staring hard at the empty patch of wall. He'd never noticed it before. Every other inch of space in the room was taken up by shelves and cabinets, hulking masses of wheeled machinery. But not this. There weren't any of those horrid Mann Co. motivational posters on it. He crept closer.

On the floor, he could see a sliver of light. It must have been covered earlier, hidden in the moonlight, but he could see it now. There was a crack in the wall and light was coming out of it. There was a room inside the wall. And judging from the sounds, someone was inside of it.

Spy immediately cloaked himself and stepped closer. Standing in front of it now, he could easily see the gap. Less than a centimeter wide, running from floor to ceiling, was the opening of a door disguised as a simple stretch of wall. Running his fingertips along it he could feel the hinges, and the precise point that it changed from cement to metal. It had been there all this time. All these years. He'd been in this room god knows how many times, snuck in and poked around and not once had he noticed it. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. And now, here he had come seeking answers to questions he couldn't begin to ask, and here it was, hiding them.

From behind the door, someone sighed.

Spy pressed his eye to the crack in the door and stared.

Medic was sprawled in a folding chair, legs spread out before him, with an intense look of concentration on his face. He was fiddling with something in front of him. For a moment, Spy feared he had caught the man pleasuring himself, which in itself would not be so terrible, but it was not what he'd come here for.

Then he saw the needle.

The large syringe was half full of a dark, viscous looking fluid that was rapidly disappearing into the man's arm. He was gloveless, his sleeve rolled past his elbow, held securely in place by the tourniquet biting into his bicep. He held the end of it between his teeth, drawing it tight. Spy's eyes widened.

Spy didn't recognise the contents of the syringe. He was intimately familiar with the injection of narcotics, and his gut tightened at the itch that lay dormant within him. The very last thing he expected was to uncover that the Medic had a drug habit. He didn't seem the type. No, this was different. This was something else.

The dark liquid was unfamiliar to him. And that was unsettling. As he watched, he could see it seeping into the doctor's veins, spidering up his arm, down into his hand. Medic's mouth fell open, the end of the tourniquet falling from his teeth as his head fell back. He let out a long, low moan.

Spy's mouth fell open.

The man's neck was exposed, his throat working obscenely as the sounds poured out of him. He was breathing hard, arching his back away from the chair as a flush spread up his neck and face. The tendons in his hands and forearms stood out as his fingers scrabbled for purchase at the top of the table. The syringe, now empty, rolled away from him and fell to the floor, bouncing harmless off his boot. Medic continued to writhe. He moaned again, higher this time, and sound sent involuntary shudders down Spy's spine.

He'd never seen Medic like this before. Until recently, he'd never seen the man looking anything other than prim and proper, all crisply pressed lines and perfect posture. Never even considered him as a vaguely sexual being, not with all that science to do. But here, now, he looked positively _debauched._

Spy could feel the heat rising in his own face beneath his mask and in his stomach. He swallowed, pressing closer to the crack in the door and watching Medic come undone. Whatever the drug was, whatever he had injected into himself, the effects were immediate. Spy could feel the old itch at the back of his mind, for more than one of his old vices.

Medic was panting openly now, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweat was darkening his temples and the front of his shirt. His eyes were closed, moving rapidly behind their lids as though he were dreaming. Spy would give anything to be inside his head right now, to feel what he was feeling. Medic's mouth opened wide, lips drawing away from his teeth in an ecstatic grimace as he let out a high, absolutely _filthy_ whine that cut Spy straight to the core. He nearly clapped a hand over his own mouth to stop from answering the sound with one of his own. This was too much. Whatever he was seeing, whatever Medic had done to himself, Spy couldn't stand it. He could barely remember why he' come down here in the first place.

He watched hungrily as Medic seemed to come down from his high. The tension drained out of him. He slumped back into the chair, hands falling heavily into his lap. Spy's eyes were fixed on Medic's throat as he swallowed, his Adam's apple bouncing invitingly. The redness was receding from his face, but a faint blush remained high in his cheeks. He kept his eyes closed as his breathing evened out, taking deep, full breaths that made the buttons of his shirt strain briefly against their bonds. He hummed softly and Spy could feel it in his chest from where he was standing.

Medic's hand slid slowly down his own stomach, and Spy realised what he was doing just before he did it. Excruciatingly slow and obscenely precise, Medic moved his hand to cup at the bulge in the front of his trousers.

Spy bit down on his lip to stop the whimper from escaping his mouth. It didn't work. A sound, a tiny, shameful little sound squeezed its way past his lips.

Medic's head snapped toward the door.

Pale, wide eyes fixed on the gap between the door between the wall. Spy blinked, once, before realising that he was no longer cloaked. Medic could see him. Medic was looking _right at him._

Spy reeled back, nearly tripping over his own feet, at the same moment that Medic's chair scraped backward across the floor. Before Spy could so much as turn to run, the secret door slid open and flooded the door with light, blinding him. He staggered back, a dark shape lurching forward as he threw up his arm. And then Medic was on him.

Strong hands closed on his arm and shoulder, pushing him back with alarming force. He winced as his back hit the hard edge of the desk, then the wind was knocked out of him when he was slammed down roughly on top of it. Medic twisted his arm painfully, holding it out at an awkward angle, and the doctor's other hand let go of him briefly. Something cold and metallic snapped shut around his wrist. Spy's blood ran cold.

“ _Non!_ ” he cried, struggling. The restraint held, and Medic's grip was vice-like. Already he could feel it bruising his other wrist. Spy tried to wrench away from him, then cried out as his arm was twisted painfully behind him. Medic boxed him in with his body, holding him down as he flailed and fought. The heat radiating off of the doctor was incredible. Spy felt as though he were standing in front of an open furnace, even though the thick fabric of his suit. Medic succeeded in securing his other wrist, trapping it between his hand and the surface of the desk, then stepped back taking the terrible heat with him. Above Spy's head, a light clicked on. He was blinded anew by the bright surgical lamp.

Medic's features were illuminated cruelly from above, making the anger on his face all the more apparent.

“ _Spion!”_ he hissed, not a title but an accusation. _“Wer hat dich geschickt?_ What are you doing here? Speak!”

Spy was reminded forcibly of his own interrogation of the BLU Spy not that long ago, how their positions had been reversed. His silence was clearly not to Medic's liking. The doctor stepped into him again, his hand closing around his throat.

It was as though he'd been branded. Medic's hand was hot, burning into him through his mask, the points of his fingers digging into his neck. _Mon Dieu_ , he was strong. Spy and Medic were of a similar height, but pinned as he was the doctor fairly towered over him. Spy choked, trying pull one of his hands free, or to get his feet on the floor. It was useless. Medic loosened his grip enough to let him suck in a breath.

“Who do you work for?” he demanded, shaking him roughly, his eyes wide and wild. The movement made Spy shift, their hips brushing together, and Spy gasped when he realised just how hard the doctor still was. Medic grimaced distastefully at him.

“Don't flatter yourself, it's merely a side effect.”

“A side effect of what?” Spy rasped, hoping Medic hadn't noticed that he was similarly afflicted. Watching him through the door had taken its toll. “What were you taking?”

“I'm the one asking the questions, and you're going to answer them if you want to leave this room with all your pieces where they should be. _Who do you work for?”_

“The same person you do,” Spy said quickly, fighting for breath.

“And she sent you? Why?”

Spy shook his head, black spots appearing behind his eyes. He couldn't breathe. He kicked ineffectually and only succeeded in jamming Medic's thigh between his own.

“N-no- no one-” He couldn't speak, his words came out as strangled syllables. Medic relented and loosened his hold again. Spy sucked in a breath and choked. “No one s-sent me, I wasn't- wasn't sent-”

Medic let go of his throat entirely, grabbed the front of his suit, and lifted him before slamming him back against the desk. Spy heard something fall and shatter, but couldn't see what it was. Medic pinned him under his forearm, the whole weight of his body crushing down on Spy's sternum, constricting his air in a new and altogether more painful way.

“You're working alone, then?” Medic sneered, the sharp point of his elbow digging into Spy's shoulder. “Working for yourself? Don't tell me you've tired of mercenary work. Of stabbing people in the _back.”_

He punctuated the last word with a vicious twist to Spy's trapped wrist. Spy hissed in pain, instinctively trying to jerk away from the source of it. But that only made it worse. Medic pressed down on his chest more firmly, hard enough that Spy was worried something might snap. He was roasting alive in his suit, cooked by the heat pouring off of Medic's body, off his hands and legs. His breath was hot and sweet on Spy's face. As he fought and struggled, he couldn't but notice how awfully persistent that “side effect” was. Despite the danger of his current situation – or maybe even because of it – his own arousal hadn't faded either. If Medic noticed, he was ignoring it.

“Why did you come here?” the doctor hissed, the shadows of his face sharp and jarring. “What were you looking for?”

Spy swallowed. He knew what he doing a moment ago. Before he was trapped under Medic's broad chest, held down by strong hands. Almost the entirety of Medic's body was pressed against him, searing into him. Why _did_ he come here? He was looking for something, something important, but whatever it was didn't matter right now. The could smell the last dying hints of the doctor's cologne beneath he sweat, beneath the scent of something that was both acrid and sweet, making his head swim the deeper he breathed. Medic was so close. Closer than he'd ever been, closer than he may ever be again. Spy's mouth worked soundlessly, trying to explain, trying to find a truth that was enough of a lie to save his life. He couldn't think anymore. He couldn't look at anything besides Medic's mouth, the lips drawn back over sharp, barred teeth.

“You,” he said, so quietly that he almost didn't hear himself. _“Je te cherchais.”_

“ _Was?”_

While he still had the strength and range of motion, Spy did the only thing that made sense at the moment. He surged upward, ignoring the sudden pain in his neck, and he kissed Medic.

Medic froze.

Spy held still until the strain on his neck became too much. He fell back heavily, the back of his head smacking into the desk with a dull thud. He was the one panting now, staring up into the doctor's wide eyes while he processed what exactly he had just done.

There was a very real, very definite possibility that Medic did not like men. That Spy had just made this whole situation go from bad to worse. He watched Medic's face, the shock and surprise that crossed his features. The way his pupils were blown wide. The way he was holding his breath. He hadn't moved an inch, either forward or away. They simply stared at each other.

Slowly, Medic's eyes slid down his form to the point where their hips met. He seemed to notice for the first time the way Spy was practically straddling his thigh, and the growing bulge in his suit pants. Medic's eyes snapped up to his, and Spy saw something click.

And then, again, Medic was on him.

The weight on his chest disappeared. Medic kissed him hungrily, tongue and teeth and just enough skill to make it feel good. Spy tried to sit up, to get them closer, to bring some sort of equality to the power balance, only to be pushed back down. Medic's hand was on his chest again. Not holding him down this time, it was tearing at the buttons of his jacket.

Under average circumstances, Spy would have batted his hands away, chastised him for rumpling his suit. But these circumstances were not average. They were extraordinary. Spy barely felt in control of his own body, his back arching off the desk to press their chests together, his hips beginning to grind out a halting rhythm against the top of Medic's thigh. He was too hot. Everything was too hot, and too much. He was wearing too many clothes and so was Medic and they needed to come _off._ He needed to touch him with his hands, to _be_ touched, and none of it was happening fast enough.

Using his shoulder, he pushed up sharply and shoved Medic back. Not away. Just far enough to be able to wriggle out of his jacket, except for the one wrist that he could now see was cuffed to the drawer of the desk. Medic, thankfully, understood his intent and helped him.

Spy thought back to barely a month ago, sitting on the steel examination table while Medic helped pull his undershirt over his head to get a look at his wounds. The doctor mirrored the action now, first with his dress shirt, then with the thin white tank top that separated them.

Spy moaned aloud when Medic pressed the flat of his hand to his ribs. Spy had been burned before, many times. But none of the flames had ever compared to the heat of Medic's palm. He looked down, half expecting to find his flesh charred beyond repair, a sickening blackness spreading across his side. There was nothing there. No wound, no burn. Only Medic.

“Off,” Spy gasped, pulling at the buttons of Medic's shirt with his one free hand. He needed to touch him. To feel if his whole body was aflame or just his hands. “Take it off.”

Medic's let go of him and Spy felt cold. The doctor's hands were steadier than they'd been in days as they flew down the front of his shirt. Spy lifted his own hand to his mouth, pulling his glove off with his teeth as he watched, touching the skin as soon as it was exposed. The broad chest was covered in a layer of coarse dark hair, deliciously run through with silver. It tapered down his stomach then thickened again as it disappeared into the high waist of his trousers. The muscles in his shoulders and arms were all the more apparent without the thick fabric of his lab coat to hide them. Spy suddenly hated that coat for hiding this from him for so long. Medic gasped when Spy's bare fingers brushed against his chest, trailing them along his collarbone. Spy expected a trail of fire in their wake, something to account for all this heat. Again, there was nothing. Only Medic.

The doctor reached forward and pushed him back down onto the desk, hands on either side of him as he brought their bodies together. Spy cried out at the contact, his head falling back. He'd been chained to a radiator before. More than once, actually. That was the only comparison he could make for being crushed against Medic in this way.

Then Medic's mouth was at his shoulder, hot and wet, teeth scraping at the tight tendons they found there, and Spy was lost.

His fingers dug into Medic's arm, trying to push him off and pull him closer in equal measure. Medic's hand slipped down his stomach, stopping to tug at his belt for a moment. Spy let out a choked little cry when that hand cupped him through the front of his pants and squeezed.

“Is that what you wanted?” Medic asked softly, his mouth by Spy's ear. His accent was so thick for a moment Spy didn't register he was speaking English “Is this what you were looking for? Why you came here?”

His fingers stroked Spy to full hardness through the fabric while he spoke, mouthing the words into Spy's skin. All Spy could do was nod. Yes. This was what he was looking for. It made sense now. This was what he'd been wanting for a long time. He tried to buck into the doctor's grasp and actually whined when that hand was taken away. Fortunately it didn't go far. Medic's fingers plucked at his belt again, roughly yanking it open before doing the same to his trousers.

“Take it _off,”_ Spy said again, his voice cracking.

It was a weakness of his, this noisiness. He couldn't help it. Couldn't stop the sounds from pouring out of him when touched, when stimulated, and he knew he would be embarrassed with himself later, but now it didn't matter. What mattered was that there were still clothes on his body, and still clothes on Medic's body, and the longer they stayed there the more frustrated he would become.

Medic stepped back and yanked his pants down to his knees.

Spy let out a slew of curses as the rough fabric scraped over his cock, immediately kicking his legs and trying to get his pants the rest of the way off. His underwear – simple black briefs; had he known what he would be getting up to tonight he would have worn something nicer – was still on for no discernible reason, but that would be dealt with later. Right now, he needed to get the legs of his pants over his shoes. Or get his shoes off. It didn't matter, so long as it happened.

“ _So begierig,”_ Medic said breathlessly, a small smirk on his face as he watched Spy struggle. Spy succeeded in getting a single foot loose, and that solved his problem. His legs were free. He sat up and reached out, grabbing Medic by the belt and pulling him forward. Their mouths met again, rougher than before, as Spy worked the Medic's belt open with one practiced hand. The uniform slacks that failed to hide how well endowed the doctor was under normal circumstances were tented obscenely, and Spy shoved his hand down the front of them without ceremony. This time it was Medic who cursed as Spy wrapped his fingers around his shaft and stroked, none too gently.

Medic unfastened his pants properly and shoved them down, stepping closer to the desk between Spy's legs. Spy rolled his hips as much as he was able, grinding their cocks together, bolts of electricity shooting down his spine at the contact.

He let go of Medic long enough to get the infuriating cloth of his underwear out of the way, then took them both in hand.

Medic grunted and pushed him down roughly, one broad palm on his shoulder, his thumb brushing over Spy's Adam's apple. A hand was brought to his mouth, two fingers shoved between his teeth.

“ _Saugen.”_

Even if he didn't speak the language, Spy understood the tone. He complied, sealing his lips around the digits and hollowing his cheeks. He lathed his tongue over the pads of Medic's fingers, and the doctor almost moaned.

He was working his hips in a steady rhythm along with Spy's hand, both their cocks slick with sweat and precum. Spy's other hand hung uselessly his side, still chained to the desk, itching to touch something, _anything._ Medic pushed his fingers almost to the back of his throat and he gagged.

Seemingly satisfied, the doctor pulled his hand away from his mouth and moved it down his body instead. Spy's breath hitched in his throat as he felt those same fingers pressing into him. Just one at first, teasing him, pushing in to the first knuckle. The other joined it soon, a bit too soon for Spy's comfort, working him open. The stretchy ache was soothed by the warmth of them, and by the way Medic was humming appreciatively above him.

The doctor pushed Spy's hand away from his member. He spat into his palm and slicked himself up, and it was the most disgustingly erotic thing that Spy had ever seen. He whined, high in his throat, spreading his legs and pushing his hips out needily.

“Do it,” he gasped, and Medic's eyes snapped to his. He swallowed and licked his lips, said more loudly, _“Do it.”_

Medic didn't need to be told again. Without a word, he lined himself up and pushed slowly inside. Spy's back arched away from the desk, his mouth falling open at the sharp, sudden ache. Two brief fingers and a bit of saliva wasn't nearly enough preparation for this, but if Medic stopped now Spy might actually kill him. Medic sank into him at a steady pace. His eyes and mouth were closed, breathing deeply through his nose as he held himself still, giving Spy time to adjust to the intrusion. Spy shoved a knuckle into his mouth to stop from crying out and waking up the whole base. He hadn't done this in months. Hadn't been this _full_ in years. The soft moans escaping around his hand betrayed him, the way his body quaked and shuddered.

When Medic started to really move, there was no hope for him. He moaned, long and loud, and didn't care if the Administrator herself heard him. The doctor thrust into him and withdrew, and when he filled him again Spy lost every single shred of dignity and self control he'd been just barely clinging to.

He heard himself begging in English and French, swearing in every language he knew as the doctor found that little cluster of nerves so deep inside him, hitting it without fail, driving into him with all his weight behind it. Sparks were firing behind Spy's eyes and down his spine, wracking his body was pleasure. Medic was burning him. Burning _into_ him, the heat of his body scorching Spy down to his very bones. The hand was still on the hollow of his shoulder, holding him down and holding him in place as the thrusts became deeper and rougher.

Medic was panting now. His head was bowed, hair damp with sweat and falling across his forehead. Spy clung to him, feeling as though he would shake apart without something to ground himself. Medic hooked his hand behind Spy's knee and pushed it higher, shifting the angle of his thrusts and Spy howled anew. He couldn't take it. He couldn't think, couldn't feel anything besides Medic, Medic, Medic, on top of him and inside him, stripping away everything he was with that awful, terrible _heat._

Spy's hand went to his own cock, trapped between them, stroking in a frantic rhythm that was almost close the doctor's own. Medic picked up the pace, grunting with the exertion. He was close, too. Spy could feel it. And God, _he_ was close, so close, the ache in the pit of his stomach was growing, threatening to swallow him body and soul.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, the sparks were blinding him he was so close, so almost- almost-

“ _Docteur-!”_ was all the warning he could choke out before the sensation overtook him.

His orgasm took him hard, splattering his hand and Medic's stomach with come. The sound wrenched from his throat left his throat raw, throwing his head back as every muscle in his body went taut. Medic swore loudly and slammed into him, filling him with his own release, his hips bucking of their own accord as he came.

The arm holding Medic up gave out beneath him. He collapsed forward heavily, resting his forehead on Spy's shoulder. Both of them were panting, gasping for air, slick with sweat and sticky with come.

Spy felt boneless. He felt worn out and burned up. Used beyond repair. And it was wonderful.

Medic moaned into his shoulder, turning his head to press messy kisses to the side of his throat as he pulled away. Spy gasped at the sudden feeling of emptiness and the coldness that came with it. When Medic pushed himself up, breaking the contact of their bodies, Spy very nearly protested. It was the look on the doctor's face that stopped him.

Medic's expression was hazy. Not quite blank, not quite cold, but it held none of the passion that he'd displayed moments earlier. He looked rather like he was coming out of a fog, a bit bewildered to find himself mostly naked and on top of another man, who was also naked.

“ _Docteur?”_

Medic looked at him, and there was no change in his expression. Spy sat up on his elbows, watching the man tuck himself back into his trousers and look around for the rest of his clothes. He pulled his shirt over his shoulders but didn't bother buttoning it. Wordlessly, Medic opened the drawer that Spy's wrist was attached to and fished around for a key. He unlocked the cuff and helped Spy get free of his tangled clothes.

Spy dressed quickly, not sure what else to do. This sudden shift in mood confused him.

Medic handed him a cloth, seemingly from nowhere, to clean himself up and Spy was embarrassed by how much of a mess he must have looked. His balaclava was crooked, for one thing, his pants and underwear were hanging off of his ankle, he was still wearing his shoes and socks, and he only had one glove on. If anyone were to walk in right now, there was absolutely no excuse he could make that would cover what had just happened.

“Here,” Medic said quietly, his voice ragged and shaking, as he held out Spy's missing glove. Spy let their fingers brush as he took it, testing the waters. Medic didn't flinch, but nor did he seek more contact. Spy put the glove on and pulled his pants up. He stood unsteadily. His legs were shaking and _merde_ he would be sore tomorrow.

He cleared his throat.

“I expect I should go, then,” he said faintly. His voice was hoarse from all the shouting. Medic nodded without looking at him.

“It's late.”

A quick glance at the clock told Spy that it was half past two in the morning. If no one had remembered to slip Soldier his tranquilizers, that meant wake up call was in three hours. He grimaced, then looked back to the doctor standing in front of him.

He wanted to say something. He wanted _Medic_ to say something. _Do_ something, besides just stand there looking half despondent. Spy didn't expect a kiss goodnight or a handshake, but a simple “thanks” would have sufficed. He'd parted on more awkward terms before.

When it became clear that Medic had nothing more to add, Spy gave up. He did another quick once over of himself, making sure everything was in place, before he turned away and walked out the door. He was only slightly disappointed when Medic didn't stop him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut is not my forte but an attempt was made


	10. On Offer

Medic did not go to breakfast that morning.

Or lunch that afternoon. Or dinner that night. Or the next day. And the next.

He couldn't stop now.

Twelve pens, sixteen pencils, a half dozen markers, four crayons, and two ill-fashioned quills later, and he was still no closer to the answer. The calculations all looked right. The formula was stable. But it still wouldn't _work._

It should have been so simple. He was building off the existing formula, just as he'd done half a dozen times before. He'd balanced the variables, isolated strains of data that could interfere with the overall viability of the product. Pages and pages full of chemical bonds and equations were stacked none too neatly around his little laboratory, piling on the table and lying haphazardly on the floor. They didn't need to be neat. They needed to be in the order that made sense, that showed his progress. He was getting closer. He was _so close,_ he could feel it in his bones, but no matter what he did he wasn't there yet.

The hunger didn't bother him. It never did, the first few days after an injection. Eating, sleeping, those were mere base functions that he could cut out with no ill side effects. Not when his higher brain functions were in overdrive. This was always the best time to work. And with his future ability in question, he couldn't let a single second go to waste.

He avoided his main office. The infirmary, his bedroom, the operating theatre. His desk. He couldn't even look at his desk. He removed the entire top drawer and took it with him when he was looking for a pen, rather than stand there in that place, hunched over as he rummaged through it. It was easier this way. Less distracting. He had no time for distractions. Which was something his teammates apparently did not understand.

Heavy was the worst. Worse than Scout. Scout could at least be scared away, threatened with a bit of yelling and the flash of a scalpel. Heavy didn't frighten so easily. Heavy was not a man to be cowed, just as Medic was not a man to be fussed over.

The giant was at his door on the morning of the second day, rattling the lock and calling to him in that booming voice. He meant well. Medic knew that, and he appreciated the thought, he really did. But he did not need to be coddled. He didn't need to have his meals brought to him, to be forced to eat under supervision like a petulant child. He didn't need to nap or rest or to be told to “take care of yourself, Doktor.” He _was_ taking care of himself. He was taking care of them all, of everything and everyone. All this work, all this time and effort and trial and error after error after error. Did they think he did this for fun? That the frustration and pain were merely an odd little past time of his?

_Dummkopfs._

There was a method to his madness. And if he could only get this _right,_ they would all understand.

Heavy was eventually shooed off after being allowed in to look around, to see that everything was really in order. Medic bristled quietly as he stood there, his most reassuring smile plastered on his face as Heavy peered around and looked him over. The birds added to the illusion of well-being by coming to perch on his shoulder and nibble at his fingers. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, but still clearly suspicious about his seclusion, Heavy was finally persuaded to leave.

Medic double bolted the door and propped a chair under the handle. Just in case.

He didn't have time for this. He didn't have time for _any_ of it. Imagined or not, he could feel it wearing thin, minute by minute, coursing through his veins and being filtered away by his own traitorous body. The most recent dosage he'd taken had been larger than usual. It pushed the boundaries for what he'd deemed safe for single consumption, but it had to be done. He needed the push. The extra time. Helen would just have to wait a little bit longer, that's all.

She would understand. She always did.

The next shipment of Australium wouldn't arrive until next week, he knew that much. They were shipping out in the morning. Off to Coldfront. Medic had been to Coldfront before. Enough times to know that he hated the place. The cold didn't bother him so much as the near constant storms. Snow dumped in vast and sudden quantities, cutting off the power and blocking up the roads. To say that the backup generators were “unreliable” would have been a kind estimation. Despite the Engineer's best efforts, the old hunks of machinery were simply too old and too overtaxed to be of much use. Entire days of fighting had be postponed due to shortages in the Respawn system. And if the power cut out while Medic was in the middle of an experiment, the results could be disastrous. He relied on the Medigun as his lifeline when he ran trials. And if that were to suddenly cut out...

He rubbed a hand over his face and pushed his glasses up onto his forehead.

Nothing was going the way it should.

He was hunched over his work table, as he had been for hours, and finally the fatigue was staring to set in. His hand was cramping. The side of his left palm was blackened with ink and graphite and now he was running out of paper. He was badly in need of a shower.

Maybe this was the end of it all. Maybe this was as far as he was ever supposed to get. He'd come closer than most, gone farther than any before him. Farther than anyone else had dared. Maybe that was meant to be his legacy. Maybe that was enough.

“I'm sorry,” said a dry voice to his right, and Medic jumped so badly he nearly fell out of his chair. “I must have misunderstood. Was I supposed to call you, or were you going to call me?”

Spy shimmered into existence, leaning nonchalantly on the edge of the table, and Medic blanched.

“How did you get in here?” he asked, casting his eyes around for something he could use as a weapon. He doubted he'd need it. Spy's posture was relaxed. His tie was loosened and there was an unlit cigarette perched between his lips. But one could never be too careful with Spies.

The Frenchman shrugged and rolled his eyes toward the door.

“Once I knew where it was, it wasn't hard to get it open. You really ought to invest in better locks, _Docteur.”_ Spy's eyes flicked to his. “You're avoiding me.”

Medic looked away quickly. So that's what this was about, as if it could be anything else. He grabbed a stack of papers and straightened them, covered their contents from prying eyes.

“I'm working. How long have you been standing there.”

“Long enough to know that I cannot read your handwriting. And that I need to brush up on my chemistry. Were you planning on hiding forever? We still have to work together, you know.”

“I wasn't hiding,” Medic snapped, abandoning his attempts at organising. He was flustered. He _wasn't_ hiding. He had work to do. And if that work kept him away from everyone, including Spy – especially Spy – then so be it. There was nothing to be done.

Spy merely looked at him. There was a smile on his thin lips. Too knowing and too intimate. Medic averted his eyes.

“I'm sorry,” he said, when the silence became unbearable. “For- for what happened. It should not have.”

“Shouldn't it?” Spy said, raising his eyebrows. Medic swallowed.

“I was not myself.”

The Frenchman settled himself more comfortably on the desk, shifting so that his knee brushed against Medic's arm. Medic refused to flinch. He stared at the piles of calculations in front of him, at all the pencil nubs and empty pens. The work that had occupied his mind for three days and nights, preventing his thoughts from wandering. Stopping him for processing his own actions and feelings. He would give anything for that numbness now. That scientific mania, taking over and blocking out the presence of the man next to him. This was not the time.

“You were high,” Spy said quietly. Medic felt a tic in his jaw.

“Not precisely. Not in the way you are familiar with.”

He quirked a glance at the masked man, hoping to catch a reaction. He knew of Spy's history with substance abuse, but wasn't sure if Spy knew that he knew. Sure enough, he caught a brief flicker of surprise across the man's features. He found it more rewarding than he should. Spy recovered quickly.

“The drug,” he said, with a slight strain to his voice. “What was it?”

“You don't know?”

“I didn't recognise it, _non.”_

“You said you'd read my file, Herr Spy. I'm beginning to think that's not true.”

Spy stiffened. The tables were turning. Medic was gaining control of the conversation, and where he did and did not want it go. Spy was flustered. Clearly, Medic had overestimated just how much he knew. With how often Helen spoke of him and how much he was relied upon, it appeared that there were still some loops he was kept well out of. Medic would have to ask her about that.

When the Frenchman relaxed his posture and shifted again, closer, Medic knew it was all going to go downhill.

“I should have known you were not yourself,” Spy said easily, allowing his leg to brush more firmly against Medic's arm. “You are never so passionate off the battlefield as you were that night. I was taken by surprise.”

Medic scowled and looked away again.

“Spy, please. This is not the time.”

“Oh? And when is the time? Would you prefer I corner you on the train where we might be overheard, and your only way to be rid of me is to throw me onto the tracks?”

“I have work to do.”

“As do I, and yet here I am. Making the time. Come, _Docteur,_ so much has passed between us already, why not a few more words?”

A flash of silver caught Medic's eye. Spy had pulled his lighter out of his suit pocket and was flicking it open, poised to light his neglected cigarette. Medic's hand shot out and caught his wrist. Spy froze.

Medic was not wearing his gloves. The sleeve of Spy's suit had shifted down slightly, revealing a slim band of skin between sleeve and glove. This is what Medic's fingers were wrapped around. He hadn't meant to touch him. Not like this. And now he couldn't move.

Very slowly, Spy reached out with his free hand. His fingers stopped by Medic's face, gloved and delicate, as they pulled his glasses back into place.

Medic was very aware of the points of contact between them. His hand on Spy's wrist, Spy's fingers brushing against his temple, the way Spy's leg rested against his arm. Three whole points of contact, and that wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

Medic let go abruptly.

“I've told you not to smoke in here,” he said, laying his hands flat on the table in front of him, to keep a good eye on them. So they wouldn't do anything stupid. Like reach for Spy, either to hit him or to pull him closer. Medic didn't know which would be worse.

Spy sighed.

“Come now, _Docteur._ Shyness is the last thing I expected of you.”

“I'm not being shy, I'm being professional.”

“And is that what you want? A _professional_ relationship?”

The question caught him off guard. He stared at Spy, trying to see the expression behind the mask. Trying to understand what exactly was being said. Spy slipped his lighter back into his jacket and learned forward, letting his gloved hand come to rest close enough to Medic's own that he could feel the warmth of it.

“If you want me to leave,” he said softly, “I will. If you want us to never speak of this again, to go on with our days as colleagues and nothing more, I will accept that. You're certainly not the first to make that call. Although...”

Spy's fingers brushed his, lightly, almost gently, and Medic held his breath. Spy's voice took on a lower, huskier quality.

“I quite enjoyed our little lapse in judgment. And I would not be opposed to exploring this... whatever this is. Whatever you want it to be. I can think of quite a few arrangements that would be beneficial for the both of us, in more ways than one. I'm curious, _Docteur_ , about what's under all those straight laces of yours. You've seen me without my mask. I'd like to see more of you without yours.”

Medic sat frozen, processing exactly what was on offer here. Spy had not come to threaten him or to blackmail him. He would have expected that. Knew how to deal with it, at least. But this... This was out of his predetermined realm of possibility. He had no plan for this. No easy answer or escape route. He didn't know what to do.

He looked at the place where their hands met. Those same hands that had clung to him. Pulled him closer, held him so tightly, tighter than he'd been held in years. Spy's voice was so smooth now, so soft, but Medic remembered the way it had cracked when it called his name and begged him not to stop. The disappointment when it was over, and Medic couldn't think of anything to stay. He still couldn't think of anything. Not with Spy's eyes on him, looking at him like that. A week ago they had been colleagues. Almost friends. A month ago they were teammates, who tolerated each other's company with polite indifference. Now he didn't know what they were.

“ _Docteur?”_ Spy said, inching his fingers further along Medic's hand. Medic realised just how long he'd been sitting there in silence. “What's it to be?”

Medic's fingers twitched, and he closed his eyes.

“I- I don't- I cannot answer that. Not... not now. My work, I have to-” He swallowed. His throat suddenly felt very tight. “I have to finish my work. I can't afford any distractions, no- no matter how tempting they may be.”

He looked at Spy now, really looked at him. The face behind the mask was inscrutable as ever. Medic smiled nonetheless. A small thing, barely more than a twitch at the corners of his mouth. He hoped it was understood.

“It's not a no,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “But... it is a not right now. If that is acceptable to you? I only- I need some time, _bitte.”_

Please. Such a simple word. Something flickered behind Spy's eyes, gone as soon as he blinked. He pulled his fingers away and sat up, and Medic's skin tingled at the loss of contact. The Frenchman made a show of putting his unlit cigarette back into its case.

“Work quickly, _Docteur,”_ he said, standing up. “If I don't get an answer soon, I may come to my own conclusions.”

His hand trailed across Medic's shoulders as he walked toward the door, effortlessly pushing it open and stepping out into the infirmary. It slid shut behind him, and Medic was left alone.

He slumped in his chair and let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

What in Gott's name was he getting himself into?

 


	11. Digging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow wow sorry for taking so long with this chapter, hope it's worth the wait

Coldfront was an exceptionally miserable place, if the stories were to be believed. It was cold and wet and isolated, set high in the mountains out of the way of any unwary travelers. Formerly, before Mann Co. had bought and repurposed it, the facility had been used for the storage and study of various illegally imported goods. Some of them chemicals, most of them weapons. The place did not have a happy history attached to it. Something bad had happened at Coldfront, though even Spy didn't know precisely what. The blown-apart building in the middle of the grounds and the strangely well stocked rooms, still furnished as though their previous occupants had every intention of coming back, spoke well enough for themselves.

The only way to reach the base was by train. A four hour journey around the mountainside, the view outside the windows becoming progressively whiter as they went. Already the ground was covered in a thick, heavy coat of snow. And if the black clouds looming overhead during the last leg of their trip were any indication, they'd arrived just in time. By tomorrow, the facility would be unreachable.

Spy hated trains.

He hated the way they smelled and the way they moved, rocking softly as they hurtled toward what must surely be certain doom. He hated the screech of the whistle. Most of all he hated the coal dust, and how it always left thin, dark lines on his skin in the pattern of his mask when he took it off at the end of the day.

He spent most of the journey curled in his seat, glaring at Sniper's reclined form across from him. How the man could sleep in such an uncomfortable position, Spy had no idea. He had no intentions of asking, either. Conversation was not a priority that day, for anyone.

Soldier woke them all at the absolute first crack of dawn, abusing the loudspeaker system with the godawful blaring of his trumpet. When everyone had gathered into the rec room in various states of undress – Demo was not wearing pants, only a long nightshirt, with a pillow tucked sleepily under his arm, and Heavy had forgone the use of a shirt entirely; only Pyro and Soldier himself were completely in uniform – the American had ordered them to bring out their luggage for inspection, and to double check that everything had been packed. Never mind that the train wouldn't be arriving until after ten. Never mind that no one was properly awake, or had eaten breakfast. Soldier didn't care that Engineer's blood sugar was low, so long as he could carry his own bags and pass inspection standards. Soldier didn't care that Demo and Scout were practically still asleep, or that Heavy was glaring murderously at him. He cared that they were behind schedule, and that was the end of it.

When all the luggage was brought out and piled up, they were finally allowed to eat. Breakfast was taken in silence. Spy managed to snag a piece of sausage before Sniper speared the rest of them. Most of the bacon was quickly given to the alarmingly pallid Engineer. Scout drowned his pancakes in syrup until they barely needed to be chewed at all. Pyro sucked up his breakfast smoothie through a special induction port, while Demo sat across from him and watched with an increasingly disgusted expression.

By the time all the food was eaten and all the dishes were washed away – Medic was the one who insisted that everything be left in good order – it was half past nine. There wasn't time to anything but wait for the train.

The journey itself could only be described as unpleasant. The heat only switched on once Spy was able to see his breath in the air, and the blankets in the overhead compartments all smelled of mold. The windows were blacked up with grime and soot, making visibility poor even when the sky was clear.

In the car next to theirs, Scout, Demo, Soldier, Engineer, and Pyro were all breaking regulation by cramming into a single car and setting up a poker game. Judging from all the shouting, the Labourer had been caught counting cards within in the first forty five minutes and was forced to sit out and referee, Scout was hemorrhaging money, and Pyro was robbing everyone blind. Soldier was being oddly quiet, for which Spy was grateful. There was only so much he could take.

At the very end of the car, being very quiet in their assigned compartment, Spy knew Heavy and Medic would be sitting together in relative silence. Probably reading. He was tempted to go and check on them, pop in just to see the doctor's face. Ultimately he decided that leaving his seat and letting it get cold again was not worth the brief effort. Medic had asked for time. Spy assumed that included a need for space, and he would give it to him. Whatever Medic decided in the end, he would be content.

 

* * *

 

The train pulled into the station well after lunch, but too early for dinner. Spy helped unload just long enough to get his own luggage off the train before turning tail and heading inside. _Merde,_ it was cold. So fucking, fucking cold, and it wasn't even snowing yet. They would have to fight in this. They would have to kill and die in this frozen waste, with fingers too stiff to hold their weapons and legs too numb to carry them to their destination. People talked of a Hell as a place of flame and fire, and Spy thought those people were idiots. This was Hell. And Hell was _cold._

He nearly slipped on the icy steps as he dragged his bags inside, shivering uncontrollably. Engineer, Scout, and Pyro were already inside. The Texan had hurried down to the boiler room to get the power up and running so the place would be halfway habitable by nightfall. The other two were in the room that was meant to serve as a sort of commons area. It looked to Spy like it was built as a reception area, but he had no idea who would be received in a place like this. Pyro was gleefully starting a fire in the large stone fireplace while Scout sat shivering beside them, his face almost completely obscured by the thick woolen scarf wrapped around his head. Spy envied him for it as he trudged down the hall, headed for the room he was supposed to call his own.

His new quarters were at the end of the narrow hallway, next to Heavy's and across from Pyro's. He bristled at the little flame emblem on the door opposite his, certain that someone had set things up that way on purpose.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, greeted by darkness and the bitter, dusty smell of disuse. Clearly no one had been in here for a while. The switch on the wall worked. Low, yellow light stuttered to life above his head, dimmed, and then brightened again. Spy dumped his bags on the floor next to the bed and looked around.

The room was smaller that the one at Teufort. Narrow, with a high, slanted ceiling. The walls and floor were all polished cement, giving the place a distinctly greyish feeling. There was a closet space set into the wall, a single steel bar running between the walls to hang his clothes on, with a small and rusted footlocker resting at the bottom of it. A low table and chair were pushed against the wall to serve both a desk and a nightstand. The bulb in the simple lamp burned out as soon he tried to turn it on. Spy sighed.

The bed was made, which was odd.

Normally, they arrived at a new base to find everything stripped out and left for them to see to. The bed linens were folded and set out for the individual to put on, but here someone had taken the time to tuck in the sheets for them.

The mattress groaned as he sat down, a small cloud of dust poofing into the air.

Perhaps the beds had not been made for them after all. Maybe they'd just been... left that way.

Spy took another, closer look around. The closet was empty, but there were a few crooked wire hangers hanging from the bar. One of the footlocker drawers wasn't pushed in all the way. There was a worn-down pencil on the desk, and the lampshade was crooked. It looked as though someone had left in a hurry. Perhaps with the intention of coming back. Evidently, from the thick layer of dust all over everything, they had never returned.

Spy had no intentions of actually sleeping in this room before, but he was even more discomfited by the idea of it having belonging to someone else, recently enough to leave a faint but noticeable indent in the pillow.

Distinctly uncomfortable, Spy stood up and brushed the dust off the back of his suit. There would be plenty of time to be creeped out later. For now, he had business to attend to.

He didn't even have to use his cloak to sneak past the rest of his team. Everyone was inside now, all shivering except for Heavy, crowding around the veritable bonfire Pyro had constructed in the fireplace. Engineer had returned from the basement, puffing into his hands, complaining thickly to Sniper about the state of the pipes and wiring in the base. Spy didn't doubt that that were in poor condition. The base was falling apart.

No one noticed as he crept through the shadows, toward the doorway at the opposite side of the room. The grimy glass was labeled in peeling letters “Administrative Access Only.” Spy let himself in soundlessly and closed it behind him.

There was a short, narrow hall that abruptly ended in a set of dark stairs. The steps led down to the sub basement, to the boiler room and the inner workings of the Respawn system. Spy had no interested in any of that. He was far more interested in the single iron door marked “Control Room.”

He tried the handle and found it unlocked. The old hinges didn't squeak as he pushed the heavy door inward, feeling around for a light switch of some sort on the wall. Overhead, the lights flickered on with the same reluctance as they had in his room, but quickly settled into a low, even glow. Spy pushed the door closed behind him and latched it.

The main feature of the Control Room was the vast wall of monitors, accompanied by a wide panel of buttons and switches and levers, too many to count. Most of the back wall was taken up by a single large screen with a camera on either side of it. A quick glance told Spy there were at least three more cameras in the room, all of them pointed squarely at the large leather chair set in front of the control panel. Spy lowered himself into the seat, wincing at the sound it made, and looked at the panel in front of it. Next to one of the innumerable buttons, a light was flashing. He pressed it.

The screens all flickered to life.

Every room in the base was monitored. The kitchen, the hallways, the commons, even the showers. All of the bedrooms were being observed. He watched his teammates, unaware that they could be seen, begin to go about unpacking their belongings and settling in to their new rooms. His eyes lingered on Medic, with his back to the camera, cleaning his glasses on the corner of his jacket. The man hadn't unpacked a thing, and didn't look like he intended to. None of his bags were even in the room. Spy wondered if the doctor had his own set of private rooms here, like he did at Teufort. If he did, they weren't showing up on any screen. That could be something to look in to.

Another light was flashing on the panel now, and he pressed it quickly. The largest monitor changed from bright white to a multicoloured haze. The speakers crackled with static, then settled in a quiet, muted hum. After a moment, the colours on the screen congealed into something that was mostly purple, scrambled and distorted across half a dozen frequencies so the signal couldn't be tracked. Through the mess, a woman sighed.

“You're late,” the Administrator said before he could open his mouth. Spy bowed his head respectfully.

“Apologies. The unloading process took longer than expected. There's a lot of snow.”

“You're on the side of a mountain. What did you expect, palm trees?”

A joke. So she was in a good mood. Interesting. Spy couldn't help smiling a little.

“Nothing so luxurious, _madame._ The a space heater or two would go a long way.”

“Hm. Anything to report?”

Spy composed his features and posture into something a tad more professional.

“Nothing of note. The journey was slow but there were no disturbances along the way. The ceasefire was uneventful on both sides, no breaches of security were recorded. There's been no unusual behavior by anyone on RED, aside from Soldier's little outbursts. They do not affect his performance in the field.”

“Good. Very good.” He heard her take a deep drag off her ever present cigarette. “See to it that everything remains in order. I want no mishaps that may compromise this mission.”

“What is our objective?”

“To capture and hold as many control points as you can, for as long as you can.”

“Of course.” Spy leaned forward. “And what is our _real_ objective?”

The Administrator was silent for a moment.

“I want them on the ropes.” she said, her voice suddenly sharply. “I want BLU pushed back and worn down. They've been progressing at an alarming rate these past few months and I want it to end. They're too comfortable. See to it that they're taken down a peg, through whatever means necessary. You are authorised to use tactics and strategies outside the usual rules of fair play.”

Spy's eyebrows shot up.

“Is it that serious?” he asked, resting his elbows on the panel in front of him. She laughed. It was not an encouraging sound.

“They've been told that this is merely a routine mission, a cool break from the desert heat. They won't expect the push. Break their morale. Remind them of the balance we must endeavor to maintain. There is no winning the war, only the battles, and they've won far too many as of late. Your team needs to shape up, yourself included. Encourage extra training. Provide incentives. I understand the promise of money is most effective.”

Spy blinked, taken aback. He hadn't thought they were doing _that_ poorly. But the Administrator had access to all of the battle data, all of their kills and support points. He still didn't know precisely how everything was recorded, but he knew it was all meticulously catalogued and calculated to determine their paychecks. The higher the average score at the end of the month, the more a person was paid. It was something of a competition within the team. Currently, Heavy was winning.

“I'll see to it,” he promised, already scheming ways to get everyone moving. The Administrator made a noise of approval.

“I know you will. And while we're on the subject of incentives...”

She inhaled another deep, smokey breath.

“There is a drawer, in the underside of the table in front of you. It contains something that may be of interest to you.”

Spy stared at the monitor for a moment. When she said nothing else, he sat back and reached beneath the panel, feeling around for a handle. When he found it he pulled it, and a slim drawer slid out toward him. His eyes widened at the contents.

“ _You-”_ He swallowed, composed himself. “You reconsidered?”

“I did.”

Spy lifted the folder carefully, staring at the little stamp in the corner stamped with Medic's serial number and rank. His file. She had given him Medic's file.

He controlled his expression. It wouldn't do for her to know just how excited he was, how badly he had wanted this. He slid the drawer shut and cleared his throat before speaking again.

“My thanks, _madame._ And what would you have of me in return?”

“I would have you do your job, and do it well,” she told him, and he didn't miss the order in her words. “Progress is being made. I want it halted. You know what you need to do, and all I expect it that you do it without hesitation. And Spy... I shouldn't have to tell you to be careful, should I?”

He grinned. It was the most genuine smile to grace his features in a long time.

“Not at all, _mon ami._ Not at all.”

 

* * *

 

Getting into his new room without being seen was much harder than getting out of it. The common room was half filled, various men milling about in front of the fire while others came and went through the halls, getting themselves settled in. Spy nearly ran into Heavy's hulking form, on it's way to the kitchen, humming happily in his short sleeved shirt despite the fact that the temperature still hadn't gotten above fifty degrees.

The little dormitory was not the ideal place to peruse the file, but Spy couldn't wait. He didn't have the patience to find a secluded little closet to tuck himself into. He had the folder clutched tightly to his chest, cradling it like a newborn, holding his breath every time he got too close to a teammates. He really should wait. Put it off until after dinner, when his absence would be less conspicuous.

No.

No, he wasn't letting this file out of his sight until he'd read it cover to cover. He wasn't giving it back until he had it memorised. And no amount of pretense could hide his eagerness now. He would have his answers. He would have the truth.

The bolt on his door was sturdy at the very least. He took the little plastic chair and shoved it up under the handle for added security, what little it would provide, and set the file on the desk. Next, he set about disabling the camera that was pointed squarely at his bed. Now that he knew where it was, it was very easy to find and destroy. The Administrator wouldn't mind. He did this in all of his rooms, and she had yet to say anything about it. With that done, he climbed down, smoothed down his tie, and took a deep breath.

It was happening. It was time.

Spy opened the file with reverence, as though he expected it to dissolve through his fingers. It looked old. The edges of the folder were worn, the back cover stained with a coffee ring. Already it looked more promising than the shoddy phony in Medic's office.

The first page lifted Spy's spirits considerably. This was not Medic's handwriting.

The photograph was different as well. Still Medic, still younger than Spy had ever seen him, but smiling now. His eyes were warm, his lips turning up at the corners . It was a genuine expression, eerily similar to the one the doctor had given him the day before. He took the picture and flipped it over, looking for a date, but there was nothing. For now, he set it to the side.

_Humboldt, Johannes S._

That was the name printed at the top of the page. A few simple lines of ink. Medic's true identity, neatly writing and plain to see.

Spy expected to feel something. Some sort of revelation, or a weight lifted off of him. There was an odd twinge in his stomach, but he attributed that more to hunger than any sort of emotion. It was just a name. Just a name, for just a man.

 _D.O.B: January 11, 1920_ – it was February now, and that would make him forty-eight; he'd only just had a birthday. Odd that he hadn't mentioned it. _Place of Birth: Stuttgart, Germany._ Height, weight, physical description, all superficial information. Spy's eyes skimmed the page, noting the names of the prestigious private schools Medic had attended, and later the equally prestigious medical school. His education was cut short by the War.

 _Conscripted in 1944_. He would have been twenty-four or twenty-five, and they sent him straight to the front lines. A field surgeon. Spy couldn't imagine the things he would have seen, the horrors that must have shaped him into the man that he was today. It explained rather a lot.

Spy sat curled against the head of his bed, legs sprawled out in front of him and a cigarette between his teeth, carefully reading every word of the file in his hands. The wind howled outside, and Scout came knocking to tell him that dinner was ready, but Spy ignored him. Food could wait. Right now, this file was the most important thing in the world.

He learned that Medic was a widower, and that he had been to prison. He learned that his medical license had been revoked not once, but twice, and that there were several old warrants still out for his arrest. The good doctor had quite the criminal past, it seemed, all in a similar vein. Malpractice, desecration of a corpse, willful manslaughter. Spy wasn't surprised.

He was, however, surprised to find a complete history of Medic's early life. An only child to a wealthy family, who excelled in school and in his social circles. A popular boy, who attended his fancy university with the respect of his peers. Whose decline into ethically questionable practice only began after he'd seen combat. Who came to America in his thirties and promptly got himself arrested, serving his time and getting out only to offend again. Saved, if it could be considered saving, by his timely joining with Reliable Excavation Demolition and the will of the Administrator herself. There was a list of his accomplishments since then, on the field and in the sciences. His point average during a match, and a number of outstanding patents, including the Über device, as well as his continued contributions to various medical journals. All in all, the file was complete. It contained everything he expected it to.

But Spy was much more interested in what it did _not_ contain.

Nowhere was it mentioned that he was receiving private shipments of Australium, or that he had been given his own secret laboratory space.

Nowhere was it mentioned that he had a drug problem.

The Administrator knew these things. She authorised most of it, surely. And yet, there was no record of this. This was the official file. This was _the_ official, quintessential record of Medic and his employment with RED. It should have everything.

Spy frowned and flipped back through to the earlier pages, a sinking feeling in his gut. Something was wrong. Something was off.

It was too linear. All of it. The progression of his life, of his work. It made too much sense. It was ridiculous, but it made too much sense. It felt scripted. The writing was too neat and even, too consistent in pressure and pacing. The ink was the same. On all the pages, every word, even portions that had been crossed out and amended, the ink was all the same. From the same pen. Written at the same time. Written by the same person.

It was fake.

Spy resisted the urge to fling the file away from him. To scatter the pages and their lies across the floor, trample them into the dirt and dust. It was fake. It was fake, again, and they were lies, all of it lies. He couldn't trust a single word, not when it had all obviously been crafted just for him. Lies, made up purely for his benefit. An incentive, she'd said. He'd give her a fucking incentive.

The Administrator was lying to him. No longer could he believe that she was merely omitting certain details or letting him come to his own conclusions. She was actively deceiving him, and this file was proof. But why? Why go to such lengths, why give him the file at all? Why not just let him go on, believing what he willed, seeking the truth in his own right. Or perhaps that had been the problem. Perhaps he had been getting too close. But too close to _what?_

Medic.

It all came back to Medic.

They were in it together. The doctor and the Administrator. Whatever “it” was, they were both a part of it. There was a larger conspiracy at work here, beyond even the petty feud between the brothers RED and BLU. No, this was more. It felt like more. It felt dangerous and long buried, like a land-mine from a war that had been settled decades ago. And Spy was digging straight towards it.

Fuck patience. Fuck waiting for the doctor to make up his mind, and being satisfied with whatever he decided. Medic was involved in this deception, and Spy wanted to know _why._

He would find out. Tomorrow, he would find out. Medic would have him or he wouldn't, but whatever the doctor's answer Spy would find a way. If the Administrator feared he was close before, she had another thing coming. He would get closer and closer until he was right on top of it, all around it, until there was nowhere left to hide.

 


	12. Hook, Line, and Sinker

“ _Boom._ Headshot.”

Across the room, Demo squealed.

The soggy piece of cereal had hit him squarely in the ear, flicked with devastating accuracy by the Sniper himself. The Scotsman whirled around, his one eye searching wildly for the culprit. When he spotted Sniper, reclined with his feet on the table, a knitted pom-pom hat tugged low on his head, and a shit-eating grin on his face, he gave a mighty roar and lurched to his feet.

“Ye bloody – _ahg!”_

Another bit of cereal bounced off his forehead and Sniper laughed.

“Heads up, mate. Look lively, wake up call was an hour ago.”

“Oh, I'll give _you_ a wake up call,” Demo growled as he advanced, and Sniper's chair tipped dangerously as he scrambled to get up. He was out of cereal, and the distance between himself and his victim was closing fast. Sniper was no weakling, but close quarters left him at a great disadvantage. He let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a shout when Demo grabbed Engie's half-eaten slice of buttered toast out of his hand and hurled it at the lanky Australian.

From the end of the table, Medic sighed heavily.

“ _Kinder,”_ he muttered, just trying to eat his breakfast in peace. The Engineer, robbed of his toast, was now on his feet and doing something that could only be described as “hollerin'.” Demo at least had the decency to look abashed, while Sniper was creeping toward the door in an attempt to escape the confrontation. He would have made it, too, if Scout hadn't stuck out his foot to trip him. Engineer and Demo both swiveled at the sound, then made a beeline for him. Medic closed his eyes and concentrated on cutting his sausage into very neat, equally sized chunks.

He sighed again, the faint whiff of smoke was all the warning he got before Spy draped himself into the chair beside him.

“ _Docteur,”_ he said, by way of greeting. Medic opened his mouth to reply.

He closed it again when he felt gloved fingertips trailing along the top of his thigh.

Medic sat very still. His lap was obscured by the table, and his teammates were all too preoccupied – Engie and Demo had Sniper back into a corner and were taking turns yelling at him while Scout was doubled over with laughter behind them – to notice anything. He expected Spy to do something like this. To try and sway his decision, one way or another. He just hadn't thought the man would be so open about it.

“What are you doing?” Medic asked quietly, as Spy's touched shifted into something that could no longer be considered light. The Frenchman hummed softly and used his unoccupied hand to take a sip of his coffee.

“Being unprofessional,” he replied casually, moving his leg so that their feet were touching. Medic didn't move. He didn't acknowledge the fluttering in his stomach, or the redness creeping up his neck. He chose to ignore how warm Spy's hand was, even through the glove, focusing instead on holding his knife and fork without letting his hands shake.

“I haven't said yes yet.”

Spy didn't miss that “yet.” His grip tightened briefly.

“You haven't said no, either. I said that I may have to draw my own conclusions, did I not?”

He's palm slid down to the inside of Medic's leg.

“Don't,” Medic breathed as those clever fingers inched steadily higher. “Not here.”

The corners of Spy's lips twitched upward. He wasn't looking at Medic. He was staring carefully across the room, where Pyro was toasting a piece of bread with their pocket lighter and doing a surprisingly good job of it.

“You would prefer somewhere with more privacy?”

His fingers grazed the junction between Medic's hip and thigh, and Medic's knife screeched noisily across the plate. He laid the silverware down and focused on sitting still.

“My room,” he said quietly. “Not – not now, in a little while. We can talk there.”

“Talk, _Docteur?”_ Spy purred, and from the way he was smiling there would be no mistaking the situation if anyone were to look at them. “Is that code for-”

“ _Talk._ It is code for _talking._ Which we will do _later._ Get your hand off my leg before someone sees.”

It was with reluctance and effort that Spy pulled his hand away, laying it flat on the table to assure Medic that it would stay there. Medic let out a slow breath.

“May I finish eating, or are you going to leer at me until I follow you out?”

Spy's smile only widened.

“In your own time, _Docteur._ We can... _talk_ whenever you like.” He glanced toward the doorway to the dining room, where a yawning Heavy had just walked in, and stood up. He put his hand on Medic's shoulder, fingers brushing far too close to his throat to be a simply friendly gesture, and squeezed. “I'll come find you when you're ready.”

The Frenchman sauntered away, melting into the shadows as he often did, and his empty chair was quickly filled by Heavy's enormous frame. The giant took one look at Medic's face, glanced in the direction Spy had vanished into, and frowned.

“Little Spy is bothering you?”

Medic picked up his silverware and resumed his breakfast, shaking his head.

“ _Nein._ He is only being himself.”

Heavy snorted.

“Then he is bothering you.”

Medic grinned despite himself. He couldn't tell Heavy that it was part of the plan. A plan that was working very, very well.

_Hook, line, and sinker._

 

* * *

 

Spy waited until a quarter past ten before he went and sought Medic out. Enough time for the doctor to finish his meal, and to compose himself from their little meeting at the breakfast table.

It was almost too easy. Medic placed a great deal of value on personal space, and invading his bubble was one of the ways Spy knew to get under his skin. Doing so publicly, in a setting where the man couldn't openly react, was immensely satisfying. Medic had been unexpectedly tolerant. And that was a very good sign.

Before going to see the good doctor, Spy had stopped by his own room and cleaned himself up. Made sure his suit was clean and unwrinkled, his tie was straight, his shoes were shined. He put on some cologne – just a touch, he didn't want to be _too_ obvious – and even went to the trouble of shaving. Normally he liked a bit of stubble on his cheeks. He'd never admit it out loud, but he thought it made him look a bit rakish. Medic, however, was always clean shaven and fresh faced, and if that's how he liked it then that's how Spy would endeavour to be. The doctor was not going to be an easy man to seduce. Any little detail that could give him an edge was worth the trouble.

He checked both ways down the hall before knocking on the door to Medic's dormitory. It wouldn't do to be seen here. He didn't want people to start talking.

_Yet._

Medic answered the door before he could even lower his hand, and Spy was pleased to see that he wasn't the only who'd cleaned up. It was subtle, but Medic had put something in his hair to make it sleek, and had changed his tie since breakfast. It was almost as nice as Spy's own. He smiled when he saw it, and the effort that had gone into the gesture.

“ _Docteur,”_ he purred, stepping in without waiting for an invitation. “Ready to talk?”

Medic stepped aside as he advanced, closing the door as soon as he was across the threshold. Spy didn't miss the fact that he locked it behind him. In contrast to his change in appearance, Medic was not smiling. He looked neither pleased nor displeased that Spy was there, merely like he had been expecting it. That dampened Spy's spirits somewhat.

“You may sit if you like,” Medic said, not moving from his place by the door. “The bed or the chair. There's only one chair, I'm afraid.”

Spy looked nonchalantly around the room. It was better furnished than his own, with a proper desk, and a wooden armoire against one wall. The closet was empty, and Medic's suitcases were nowhere in sight. The bed did not look slept in. Spy's suspicions about the doctor having separate, private quarters stashed away somewhere were all but confirmed. It made him wonder why they'd chosen to meet here in the first place.

He chose to sit on the bed, as the message it sent better suited his purposes. He crossed his legs indelicately and leaned back on his arms. It was casual. An invitation. Medic merely looked at him.

There was something in the doctor's icy eyes that unsettled him. Spy had come here expecting to find Medic still flustered from his display at breakfast, still vulnerable to his advances. He was expecting to have the upper hand here, or at least start off on equal footing. But with the way Medic was looking at him, Spy could feel the earth sliding away under his feet, pulling him down to a position of distinct disadvantage. The fact that he was sitting while Medic remained standing only increased the illusion. He was beginning to regret coming here unarmed. So much for a gesture of good will.

The doctor stepped slowly, deliberately, toward the desk. He stood next to it for a moment before pulling out the chair and sitting down, directly across from Spy. He crossed his legs to mirror Spy's posture and sat back, simply regarding him. Spy was not one to fidget, but if he were this would be the time for it.

“You made it clear that you wanted to talk,” he said, trying not to show his trepidation. “What exactly is it that you want to talk about?”

Medic considered for a moment.

“Is there anything you want to say?” he asked, his voice surprisingly soft. “Any questions you have, or anything you want to tell me?”

Spy was taken aback. He hadn't expected this. This subdued, almost morose attitude from the doctor. He expected anger at worst, annoyance with the liberties he'd taken at breakfast, or passion at best. To be grabbed and pinned down and ravaged. He could have adjusted to that fairly quickly. At the very least he would have had some choice phrases in response. But now he didn't know what to say. He didn't know what was expected.

“No,” he said slowly, sitting up into a more dignified position. “Though clearly you think I should.”

Medic tapped his fingers on the point of his knee, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He spun suddenly, turning to face the desk and pulling out one of the drawers.

“Then perhaps we should start with this,” the doctor said, and when he turned around there was a file in his hands.

The colour drained from Spy's face.

A plain manila folder, thick with paper, rubber-stamped with black ink across the front. He recognised it immediately. He'd held it in his own hands, not twelve hours earlier, in his own room. Flipped through it. Read every word, cover to cover. Hid it when he was done. Hid it well.

Medic was holding his own official file, and was watching Spy's face very closely.

“You know what this is,” he said, and it was not a question.

Spy nodded. He couldn't speak. His mouth was too dry. Medic flipped over the front of the file, but didn't look at it.

“You've read it,” the doctor said, again not a question. “You asked for my file, mine specifically, on several occasions. I'm curious as to why.”

Spy finally recognised what it was that he saw behind those cold blue eyes. It was interest. Studious, clinical interest. The way one regards an insect on a pinboard. Spy's eyes flickered to the locked door, the lid to his killing jar, then back to its gatekeeper. Spy swallowed, and then swallowed again when the walls of his throat stuck together.

“Are you going to kill me?” he managed to croak. The corners of Medic's mouth quirked up in something that wasn't quite a smile.

“I might,” he said, and Spy believed him. “That depends on this conversation. Helen wanted to have you killed right away, of course, but you mustn't blame her. She is only protecting me. It was my idea to give you the file, and see what you did with it. If you did anything. What did you think of its contents?”

Spy blinked several times, processing just how unwittingly close he had come to death. How close he still was.

_She is only protecting me._

“It's fake,” he said numbly. Now Medic smiled.

“ _Sehr gut._ How did you know?”

“The ink. The writing. It's too consistent. And there are too many details. Good lies don't need embellishment.”

The doctor seemed pleased with his answer.

“You went through a great deal of trouble to acquire this file,” Medic said, glancing through the first couple pages. “Suddenly all that absurd sneaking around of yours – _just checking in –_ made a lot more sense. I should have seen it sooner.”

He closed the file and folded his hands in his lap. There was a hardness to his expression, something that verged very close to disappointment.

“I noticed when I was packing that the drawer was not all the way pushed in. Things were out of order, and not where I left them. When I brought my concerns to Helen she told me of your request, and of your interest in me. It wasn't hard to put two and two together. Finding you sneaking around in my lab, rifling through my belongings. _Spying_ on my work.”

He snorted, as though laughing at a joke that hadn't been told.

“And to think I believed you simply wanted me.”

Spy frowned.

“I do want you,” he said, before he could think better of it, struck by the bitterness in the doctor's voice. Medic looked at him sharply. Spy decided it would have been better to say nothing at all. But the damage was done.

The doctor sat straight in his chair, shoulders back and chin held high.

“Who do you work for?” he asked, his voice now holding only cold professionalism. Spy crossed his arms.

“I've told you this already. I work for the same person you do.”

“And who else? Who were you going to give this file to?”

“I wasn't going to give it to anyone.”

“Then what were you going to do with it?”

“Read it,” Spy snapped, losing his patience. He'd never been a very interrogation subject, particularly when he'd not done what he was being accused of. Medic narrowed his eyes.

“Why did you want to read my file so badly that you were willing not only to steal from me, but to go behind the back of your superiors?”

“I was curious,” Spy said tightly. He could see the doctor becoming frustrated as well, though he hid it much better. “I didn't have an agenda. I _don't_ have an agenda, if that is what you're worried about. I just wanted to know.”

Medic frowned slightly.

“To know what?”

Spy didn't answer right away.

_What makes you think I've never been tortured?_

That's what started it all. That's what it all came back to. A single question, and the tone of the doctor's voice when he said it. Spy had played it over and over in his head, trying to understand it. Trying to understand what Medic thought he knew. Medic had extended that olive branch of respect, of _if you know as much about me as I think you do,_ to forge a bond between them, had he not? He thought Spy would know. He _expected_ him to know, and yet he _didn't._ And was that all it was? The frustration at being afforded a respect he didn't rightfully deserve? At not living up to Medic's expectations of him?

He wanted to know what he was missing.

He wanted to know how much he'd gotten wrong.

He wanted to know the truth.

“Why is this so important?” he asked, more softly than he meant to. “This file. Your history. You. Why does it matter so much?”

A crease appeared in Medic's brow.

“You really don't know, do you?”

Slowly, Spy shook his head. Medic pulled his glasses down and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Well, that simplifies matters... I thought you- I thought she would have told you. Something, at least. You really don't know anything about me?”

“I thought I did,” Spy said irritably. “Up until it became apparent that I did not. And until you asked me that. I didn't realise you were so interesting, _Docteur,_ until people started telling me that you weren't.”

Medic smiled then, a brief little thing, barely more than a twitch of the lips. But it was an encouragement. At the very least, Spy was no longer fearing for his life. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and found the distance between himself and the doctor wasn't so great after all.

“You've asked your questions,” he said carefully, testing the waters. “I've given you my answers. Is there anything that I am permitted to ask? Assuming you're going to kill me anyways, there's no harm in it.”

“I wasn't planning to kill you,” Medic told him, his smile falling. “Well, I would have, if it was determined that you were a threat. But I don't believe you are. I think you're too nosy for your own good, and very good at your job, but I suppose that is a rather important part of your job description, _ja?_ You can leave at any time, so long as I have your word that you will leave this alone.”

Spy's mind worked quickly.

“Does that include leaving you alone?”

“ _Was?”_

“You, _Docteur._ I believe I made you an offer not that long ago, concerning some sort of arrangement between us, in whatever manner you so decide. As far as I'm concerned, that offer is still on the table. Should I take it off?”

His phrasing was deliberate. The opportunity was slim, but he had to take it while he could. In exchange for his life he would gladly back off from Medic's secrets. But from the man himself... that would be altogether more difficult. He hadn't forgotten the bitterness in Medic's voice, accusing him of using him to get information, or the surprise when Spy claimed he had not. And he wasn't lying.

“And if such an arrangement should be mutually beneficial,” Spy continued, when Medic didn't immediately shut him down, “Perhaps we could work something out with questions and answers. A give and take, as it were.”

Medic's frown deepened.

“Are you attempting to blackmail me, Herr Spy?” he asked sharply, and Spy immediately backtracked.

“ _Non. Mon Dieu_ , no, that is not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, exactly?”

“I want to know you,” he said bluntly. It was the most honest thing he'd said in a long time. The weight of it hung in the air around him, adding to the sudden silence between them. Medic opened his mouth, like he was going to say something, but Spy cut him off. He had to talk now. If he didn't, he'd never be able to speak so clearly again.

“You interest me. You're the most interesting person I've met in a very long time, and I find that both frustrating and fascinating. You apparently know everything about me, and yet it has become abundantly clear that I know absolutely nothing about you. It would be lying to say that I don't see you as a personal challenge. But I did mean what I said. About wanting you. Whatever you are willing to share, I would have it. Time, knowledge, simple pleasantries. If you would prefer a strictly physical arrangement, I would not be averse to it, but I would be... disappointed. I feel that we could both benefit more than that from each other, but again, I'll leave that to your discretion. Before, you asked for time. Well, I would like an answer. I'm afraid all I have to offer is myself. Whether or not that is enough is up to you.”

Spy closed his mouth and sat back, and waited.

Medic was staring at him, his mouth hanging open slightly. His eyes had gotten steadily wider the longer Spy spoke, and his eyebrows were raised so high they threatened to disappear into his hairline. It was some time before he spoke.

“I think-” His stopped, and Spy watched his throat work against his collar as he swallowed. “I think that something can be arranged. I think that I would like that.”

 


	13. Boundaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two updates in two days, i feel like i'm breaking a personal record. enjoy.

“ _Now, Doktor!”_

The static charge that filled the air raised the hair on the arms and neck anyone in a fifteen foot radius. Heavy roared as the genetically altered baboon heart in his chest kicked into overtime, filling his veins with raw power. Behind him, Medic grit his teeth at the overwhelming sensation, something that managed to take him by surprise without fail no matter how many times he experienced it. The blood pounded in his ears, the charge coursing through him like an electric shock, setting his nerve endings on fire.

He was invincible.

_He was a god._

The doctor and the giant moved as one, rounding the corner with a mighty cry. They saw red, terrible red, as Heavy's minigun ripped through the opposition, shredding limbs and spattering the floors, the walls, the ceiling with red, red,  _red._ It was a symphony of gunshots and screams and maniacal laughter. The latter was coming from Medic himself, ecstatic and unashamed as the Administrator shouted their victory from above. The voice of God herself condoning this beautiful, musical slaughter.

BLU hadn't known what hit them.

Medic had seen the whites of their eyes as his team rounded that first corner, weapons held high, charging for all they're worth. He'd seen the confusion on their faces. This was supposed to be an easy job, they were told. A rest. A respite.

RED had shown no mercy. Their victory was swift and brutal, and the day's battle came to an end in a matter of minutes.

Now all they had to do was hold the line.

“Didja see the looks on their faces!” Scout shouted, bounding ahead and walking backwards in his excitement. “They just stood 'n stared til we were right on top of 'em! I popped that BLU fat-ass before he could even get his gun revved up, I mean did you fuckin' _see_ it?”

“We were all there, laddie,” Demo said, but was unable to hide the broad grin on his face. He'd been particularly on point today, and made life a living hell for his counterpart on the field. And anyone not caught in a well-placed sticky trap was quickly and efficiently picked off by the smugly silent Sniper.

Scout's bravado was well deserved, for once. He dispatched the enemy Pyro with ruthless gusto, cutting in close to take a shot but always dancing just out of the flamethrower's reach. RED's own Pyro had kept the BLU Spy at bay from Heavy and Medic, lighting him up with glee when he dared to get to close. Soldier had taken out both the BLU Scout and Sniper in two well timed, well aimed shots, and left the second to last point completely open to capture. Engineer didn't even have time to set up any buildings, and Medic barely had any time to build an  Ü ber before they were at the final control point. Spy took out the BLU Engineer's hastily constructed low-level sentry and then the Engineer himself shortly before the rest of the RED team charged in. Through teamwork and cooperation, they had ended the fight without a scratch. A day's rest well earned.

“It was like they didn't know we were comin'!” Scout continued, nearly tripping on a patch of ice as they entered the grounds of their own base. “They knew we were gonna be here, right? Like they didn't think it was gonna be just them, did they?”

“They knew,” Spy said, sliding up from behind Soldier. He was smirking, but his cigarette was unlit and his hands were shoved so deep in his pockets it was a wonder they didn't go right through. The cold was bitter, and they'd only been out in it for a short while. It wasn't even snowing. Fighting in a blizzard would be hellish.

Spy caught Medic looked at him and flashed a grin. Medic returned it with a grin of his own.

They had done well today. Very, very well.

 

* * *

 

Perhaps it was the brisk mountain air, or perhaps it was the new, tentative hints of a relationship in Medic's life, but his head felt clearer than it had in months.

Looking back over his work, he could see every mistake. The frantic scribblings and repetitive calculations that had all made so much sense were now filled with glaring errors. No wonder he couldn't get it right. He was working with entirely wrong information. He could see it now, and wondered how he couldn't before.

Perhaps the serum was talking more of a toll than he first thought.

It was a curious thing the change in dosage made. It had already been a week, and he could still feel it thrumming through him like the first-day high. Did it always used to be like this? This lasting strength and vitality that didn't leave him feeling drained the longer it wore on? It must have been. He must have lost touch, somewhere along the way, with how it was supposed to be. But how long had he been subsisting like this? Slowly fading, growing weaker each time?

It was definitely an issue with immunity. All these years of taking it twice, sometimes three times a month had left his body ravaged and unable to absorb it as it should. Too much was being filtered out. Respawn was also adapting as well, trying to restore his body to its “natural” state with every trip. That was the last thing he wanted. Later, he would have to have a very confidential talk with the Engineer to attempt a fix for the system.

Now that he had identified the problem, he could properly formulate a solution.

The small chunk of Australium he had been given wasn't nearly enough for a proper experiment, but it could be enough to really get things underway. But he needed more. Much more. And if the reserves were being watched as closely as Helen said, that may be a bit of a problem.

Medic didn't think to ask _why_ the reserves we being watched, or by whom. It didn't concern him. Everything to do with the management of the company and its resources was far out of his realm of expertise. He simply managed the health of the team, monitored the advancements of various technologies and sciences, and quietly pursued his personal research. Everything else was up to Helen.

He did not envy her.

Especially not if she was in a state similar to his own.

The doctor sat back in his chair, raising his hands over his head in a languid stretch. His back barely hurt at all, but the action itself was therapeutic.

This private laboratory was larger than the one at Teufort, and better stocked. The only downside was that it was down in the basement instead of connected to his quarters, which meant there was always a chance of being followed to it or encountered while he was leaving. The Engineer also made his dwelling down here, setting up a workshop adjacent to the boiler room. The two of them fairly lived down here, two men of science, each keeping to themselves unless the other showed signs of wanting company. The Texan was a good-natured, accommodating man, but Medic was well aware that he didn't like to be disturbed while he was working. He was the same.

So when a pair of gloved hands snuck around his shoulders from behind, and a warm mouth pressed itself to the side of his neck, Medic was understandably upset.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, jumping in his seat. He hadn't heard the door open or the sound of footsteps approaching. Spy hummed against his throat.

“It's late,” the Frenchman murmured, his hands smoothing down Medic's chest. “You should be in bed. It would have been much easier for me to find you there.”

“You shouldn't be here.”

“I wasn't followed.”

“You shouldn't be here because I don't want you here,” Medic growled, pushing the wandering hands away from him. Her jerked away from the lips nipping at his jaw and turned in his seat, glaring at the masked man behind him. “This place is secret. _Private._ How did you find me here? I thought we agreed you wouldn't spy on me any longer.”

“No spying necessary,” Spy said stiffly, though he did look appropriately abashed. “Simply deduction. You weren't in your room, or any of the other rooms you may have reason to be in, and the basement seemed the ideal place for a hidden room. The light shines under the door, as well.”

He paused, and Medic narrowed his eyes.

“If it makes you feel any better, if not for that I would have given up. I was looking for you for much longer than I care to admit.”

“Why were you looking for me?” Medic asked, eyes narrowing further. He noted Spy's loosened tie and unbuttoned jacket, and the gleam of mischief in his eyes. Spy shrugged.

“The pleasure of your company, _Docteur,”_ he said simply. “We fought well today, and I am often unable to sleep after such a victory. It is easier if I find someway to tire myself out first, though... I would prefer not to do so alone.”

Realising he was serious, Medic sighed. Of all the -

“ _Nein,”_ he said. “Not now. I am perfectly capable of getting to sleep on my own, _danke._ And I suggest you learn to do the same.”

Medic frowned, pressing his lips into a thin line as he tried to find the words he wanted to say. He should have been angry, even alarmed that he had been found so easily. But there was no danger from Spy. He didn't feel threatened or endangered. Only irritated.

“We need to have a talk about boundaries,” he said slowly, rising to his feet. Spy looked at him with raised eyebrows as he leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms.

“Boundaries?” he said dubiously.

“Yes. If- if _this_ is going to- whatever it is we decide to do here, is to succeed, there are things that must be established. Rules.”

“Rules,” Spy repeated, crossing his arms to mirror Medic's posture, a mockery of what Medic himself had done the other day. “This is all sounding very regulated, _Docteur,_ and not very romantic at all.”

“No romance,” Medic said with a grimace. “Consider that rule number one. Whatever this is or whatever it may become, _romance_ is not something I wish to be factored into the equation. I have no time for it.”

Spy pulled a face, briefly, then nodded.

“Very well. I shant be bringing you flowers any time soon.”

“Next,” Medic continued, ignoring him, “You are never to come here again. This room does not exist. You will not mention it or approach it or enter it. You will forget about this place. There are only two people in the world who know that this room is here, and you are not one of them, understood?”

Spy nodded curtly.

“Anything else?”

The doctor didn't miss the sharpness of his voice. Deprived of his nighttime shenanigans and now being lectured, Spy was clearly becoming irritated. But he was the one who started this whole thing. It was he who instigated the first kiss, and he who approached Medic not once but  _twice_ with the suggestion of continuing their dalliance. Medic was very open to exploring something between them. It had been some time – a very  _long_ time, if he was being honest with himself – since he'd so much as had the opportunity to connect with another person outside of a professional capacity. There had been numerous physical encounters over the years, with both men and women, but almost all of them had been one-off affairs. He wasn't used to relationships. He wasn't good at them. And if they were going to do this, it was going to happen on his terms and at his own pace.

“I would prefer if you did not interrupt me while I am working,” Medic said, as non-confrontationally as he could. “Either here or in my office. I get very few hours to myself in which I am able to focus, and I would like to make the most of them without worrying if I am going to be _groped_.”

Spy's smirk betrayed him. He sighed, deep and long suffering, as though acquiescing to such a thing were a chore.

“Very well,” he said drily. “I agree to your terms, _mon ami,_ if you will agree to mine.”

“Let's hear them first, before I agree to anything.”

“Smart man.” He paused, pursing his lips for a moment in a way that Medic found entirely too enticing for his own good. He blinked quickly before he could be caught staring. “I don't like being ignored, _Docteur,_ which may seem counterproductive to my career path, but there it is. Consider it a personal failing on my part. I do not require much attention, however, and I of course understand the value of discretion. A few words, however brief, go a long way.”

“Just a little something to show I care?” Medic sneered, but from the way Spy's shoulders stiffened this was the wrong thing to say. He adopted a softer tone. “I understand. I think I can manage a simple exchange of pleasantries, if that is all you require.”

“There is one more thing.”

“Go on.”

“I want information,” Spy said firmly, then held up his hand when Medic opened his mouth. “We are not going to forget how or why this arrangement came to be. I have promised you that I will not snoop and I will not dig, and I will not press you for anything that you have deemed to be off-limits. But neither will I let this alone. I have questions, and I will not be punished for asking them regardless or whether or not you choose to answer them. I want to know more about you. I will answer your questions as well, should you have any, though I doubt you would since you've made it clear you already know everything about my life. I assume I don't have to tell you how unfair I find that?”

Medic frowned, but didn't argue.

“I don't know _everything,”_ he said carefully. To be honest, he knew very little about Spy's actual life. He was more familiar with the details of his work. “But I see your point. I will answer your questions, provided they are not too invasive, and perhaps you can answer some of mine as well.”

“That it acceptable.”

“Then we agree?”

“It seems we do.”

Medic smiled slightly and uncrossed his arms. The relaxed, open posture felt more natural now, and some of the tension had eased between them. He felt better for it. This little talk. Nevermind that it sounded like they were discussing a business transaction, although perhaps that was an accurate comparison.

Spy sighed and softened his posture as well, holding an elbow in each hand.

“I expect I should go, then,” he said, and it took Medic a moment to remember the next line.

“It's late.”

The masked man turned his head, looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and smiled.

 


	14. Answers to Questions Unasked

BLU had wised up considerably over the first week of fighting.

It took them a while to realise it wasn't all just a fluke. That their enemies weren't just making a push for first blood as a matter of pride. RED fought with everything they had, day after day, preventing BLU from gaining any ground and quickly undoing any progress they managed to make. By the third day of crushing defeat, BLU was already starting to break.

Spy was making good on his permission to break regulation.

Every day, he would wait patiently outside the BLU spawn for their Engineer to come trundling out. Every day, he would follow him silently and wait for him to begin constructing his necessary buildings. And every day, Spy would drive his blade deep between the little man's shoulder blades, jerking it to be sure it severed the spinal cord, _just_ when he had everything built as intended. Spy would then systematically sap or destroy every single building while the Engineer was going through Respawn, ensuring that he had to start all over again. Usually the fight didn't last long enough for a repeat performance, but it was even more satisfying the second time around.

He knew the tactic was working when the Engineer refused to go anywhere at all without the BLU Pyro by his side, turning their flamethrower menacingly at anyone who approached.

With every victory, RED only became more confident, more aggressive, more belligerent. The tide was turning. After a nearly three month losing streak, with every win bitterly fought for tooth and nail, this shift in power was exhilarating.

Which was exactly what the Administrator ordered. Spy may not have entirely understood her reasoning, but there was no denying the results.

The BLUs were shitting themselves.

 

* * *

 

“What is your name?” Spy asked, kissing and nipping a line along Medic's collarbone.

“ _Was?”_ the doctor sighed, arching into the other man's touch.

It had been a lucky break, catching Medic in his private rooms, dressing down for bed. Spy had gone to talk. That was all he wanted. But when he knocked on the door, he very quickly found himself being pulled inside and undressed by talented, impatient hands. He wasn't about to complain.

They were spawled on Medic's bed now, mostly naked – Spy had refused to remove his mask again, and Medic had refused to remove his socks – and Spy was going to use his position to his advantage.

“Your name, _Docteur.”_ He paused to suck at the crook of Medic's neck, delighting at the man's stifled little moan. “You know mine. It seems a simple enough place to start.”

“I thought you already knew my name.”

“I know the name that is written in your file, though I highly doubt its validity. Is your name Johannes Humboldt?”

Medic snorted.

“No, that is not my name.”

“I thought not. So what is?”

When Medic remained silent, Spy pulled away and stared at him.

“Are you really not going to tell me?” he asked. He was on top of the doctor, one hand on his chest and other on the mattress. Medic looked up at him, a soft frown creasing his features.

“I haven't said my name in a very long time,” he said quietly. “Not in- not in years. There are only two other people who know it now. It's... it's become a very personal thing.”

Spy glanced down at their naked bodies, pressed together on top of the covers and raised an eyebrow.

“And this is not very personal?”

Medic simply smiled, raising a hand to trail it along Spy's side. It was very hard not to lean into his touch.

“Ask me something else.”

Spy sighed heavily, to cover the fact that he was genuinely annoyed. That was supposed to be the easy starter question to get Medic to relax, and eventually open up. He shifted, moving away from the doctor's neck and further down his chest.

Medic was in good shape. Better shape than his uniform properly conveyed. His muscles were toned and firm, with a healthy layer of fat about his stomach, perfectly acceptable for a man his age. Personally, Spy didn't have an ounce of fat on him. His chest was smooth and relatively hairless, and every inch of him was lean, wiry muscle. Medic was no bodybuilder, but he'd be the one to win in a fair fight between them. Which is why Spy never fought fair.

He closed his mouth over a nipple and lightly ground his teeth. Medic's mouth fell open.

“ _Gott!”_

Spy lathed his tongue over the nub, sucking it to a red little point before pulling away and turning his attention to its mate.

“Tell me about the fake name, then,” he said, looking up at Medic through his eyelashes.

“W-what?”

“It must have some meaning, _non?_

“Yes, but-”

“So tell me.”

For a moment Medic looked like he was going to protest. Spy stared at him, making it clear he wasn't going to move until he started talking. Medic sighed.

“Johannes... was my father's name. Humboldt was- well, it's a joke. Humboldt is a very common name in my country, for _Apothek-_ _ach,_ for pharmacies and medical institutions. I thought it was funny.”

Spy's hummed, putting his mouth back to work. He was working his way downward now, pausing at the middle of Medic's stomach, just above his navel where the hair was sparser, sucking a dark mark into the skin. By the end of the night, he intended the leave marks just like that all over the man's body, so he couldn't so much as roll up his sleeves without thinking of him.

When he scooted further down the bed, teeth grazing over the sharp jut of Medic's hip with delicious results, Spy spoke again.

“Tell me about him.”

Medic had his head thrown back, eyes closed and mouth open, taking in everything that Spy was doing to him.

“Who?”

“Your father.”

Medic raised his head and looked at him incredulously.

“You can't be serious.”

“I'm always serious. What was he like?”

Spy's lips pressed to the junction where Medic's hip met the top of his thigh, and the doctor squirmed.

“I don't want to talk about this while you're doing that.”

“Tell me, or I'll stop.”

Medic let his head fall back into the pillows, covering his face with both hands.

“This is blackmail,” he grumbled, his voice slightly muffled, then cried out when Spy licked a long, hot stripe along the underside of his cock. He pulled away and waited for Medic to look at him again.

“Talk, or I stop.”

“For Gott's sake... My _Vater_ was- he was a good man. A doctor.”

“You followed him into the profession?” Spy asked, teasing the head of Medic's cock with the flat of his tongue. Medic exhaled hard out of his nose.

“Not followed, _nein._ He didn't want me to. He wanted me to – _Gott –_ wanted me to become a priest.”

“A priest” Spy asked, surprised He looked up at Medic from between his legs, one hand busy slowly pulling back the man's foreskin. “You?”

Medic laughed shakily.

“It was his idea, not mine. He was a very pious man. He would have joined the priesthood himself if he didn't love my mother so much.”

Spy stroked him slowly, smirking.

“A happy childhood, then?”

“Not especially, no.”

“Oh?”

“Spy, we're not talking about this right now. Ask about something else, if you must.”

Spy considered. He _was_ curious about Medic's childhood now. A boy with devoted parents, and a father who actively discouraged him from going into medicine. He hadn't expected that. Spy wanted to ask about his mother, and what she thought about his career choice. He wanted to ask if Medic had been as wealthy and well-educated as his fake file suggested.

But he was also aware of the hard, hot length in his hand, and of his own nearly painful arousal. Questions could wait. Well, most questions.

“Have you been with many men, _Docteur?”_ he asked softly, before closing his mouth over the head of Medic's cock and hollowing his cheeks.

The strangled sound that doctor made shot straight down his spine. Medic arched away from the bed, inhaling in sharp, stuttering increments, his fingers grasping at the bed sheets.

“N-not many,” he said in a small voice, when Spy began to bob his head, taking more of the man's length into his mouth. “But more than a few...”

Spy filed that away for further questioning as well. He had overshot “more than a few” in his own experiences by a long shot, but that could be said of women as well. He had no definite preference either way, and wondered if the doctor was the same. He wasn't about to ask, however. Not right now. Not when there were other things to attend to.

Spy put all of his focus into the task at hand, sliding one hand along the inside of Medic's thigh, using the other to stroke at what he couldn't fit into his mouth. He began to work faster. Medic exhaled in a sharp huff, placing his hand on the back of Spy's head. Not enough to hold him down, but certainly an encouragement.

The doctor was too quiet. There was no one down here to hear them in the dark, no reason to hold back. The little noises, small whines and hitches in his breath, weren't good enough. Spy wanted to hear him cry out with pleasure, and know that it was his doing. It was only fair to return the favour, after all.

He hummed around Medic's length, hot and heavy on his tongue, sucking hard, and Medic's fingers grabbed at the back of his mask, pulling him off.

“Come here,” he said breathlessly, scooting a little further up the bed. “I want you closer.”

Confusion gone, Spy grinned. On to the main event, then.

He crawled up, pressing as much of his body against the doctor as he could along the way. Spy was achingly hard. He'd been neglecting his own pleasure, and the brief bits of friction were sending jolts of electricity down his spine. He kissed Medic hard, putting his hands on either side of his hips, using his knees to push the doctor's thighs apart.

“ _Nein.”_ Medic said suddenly, sitting up on his elbows. Spy looked at him in surprise.

“You don't like it this way?”

Medic frowned, looking almost sheepishly.

“It's not that, I've- I've never-”

Spy's eyebrows shot up, understanding.

“You said you've been with men before.”

“I have. But the men I was with, they were- I was always older, and more experienced in these matters. This was never what they wanted from me.”

Spy processed that, glancing down at the point where their bodies didn't quite meet before looking back up. So much for returning the favour.

“How would you like me then, _Docteur?”_ he asked, smirking, but Medic looked unsure.

“This isn't a problem?” he asked, even as Spy moved to settle himself astride the doctor's hips. Spy merely looked at him in answer, leaning over to the bedside table to grab the conspicuously placed bottle of lube that was sitting there. He wondered if Medic had been expecting him to show up tonight, and if he hadn't perhaps he would have come looking. Or maybe he wasn't the only one to visit the doctor's quarters in the dark of the night.

Deliberately, so that Medic could see, Spy squeezed a good amount of lube out of the tube, warmed it between his fingers, and reached back.

He moaned as he slid a finger into himself, all the way to the second knuckle.

Medic's hands slid along his thighs, smoothing over the skin with broad, soft palms. It was an advantage of wearing gloves that they both shared, having hands that bore no callouses, and fingers with short, neat nails. The other man's hands were larger than Spy's own. They were warmer than average, but they weren't the scorching, white hot brands that they had been the first night they had done this. In the back of his mind, too preoccupied with working his finger in and out of himself and inserting another to dwell on it, if that incredible heat had been a side effect of Medic's mysterious drug.

Spy steadied himself by placing his hand on the doctor's chest, leaning forward slightly. He watched Medic's face as he slid a third finger into himself, unable to hold back the breathy moan that slipped past his lips. Medic's eyes were fixed on his face. His mouth was open slightly, and Spy shuddered when he saw the pink point of a tongue dart out to wet his bottom lip.

He couldn't take it anymore. Spy withdrew his fingers and reached again the lube, squeezing more onto his hand. This time he reached back not for himself, but for Medic.

He watched the doctor's pupils dilate as his hand closed around the end of his cock, stroking it til it was slick and hot in his grasp. He heard Medic's breath hitch when he angled that cock toward his entrance, and slowly sank down onto it.

Spy couldn't stop the guttural moan that poured out of him. He couldn't stop from throwing his head back the first time he rolled his hips, fingernails digging into Medic's chest. _Merde_ , he was full, and every inch only filled and stretched him further. It didn't hurt so much this time, since he had been better prepared, but what ache there was was incredibly welcome.

When Medic's hands slid up, fingers digging into his hips, and the head of his cock hit that little cluster of nerves, Spy cried out.

“ _Mon Dieu..._ God, oh God...”

Medic shifted, planting his feet flat on the bed for leverage, beginning to thrust upward. Spy pitched forward as the pace picked up, barely able to hold himself up with his forearms on Medic's chest, completely unable to keep the sounds from tumbling past his lips. Moans and whines and all manner of curses and praises. He moved his hips in time with Medic's thrusts, pushing himself up with his knees then dropping down with all his weight, over and over and over again. Medic was almost silent. Spy might have thought he weren't enjoying it, if not for the harshness of his breathing, and the way his fingers were digging in hard enough to bruise. Spy hoped they would. He hoped he would have two sets of finger shaped bruises on his hipbones to pretend to hide in the showers. He wanted to feel them when he tightened his belt just a notch too tight, holding that dull ache with him all day long. Just thinking about carrying those bruises under his suit...

Spy squawked in surprised when he was suddenly shoved the side and flipped onto his stomach. He felt a hand on his back, holding him own into the mattress, and cried out when Medic roughly pushed back into him.

“You're so loud,” the doctor panted, voice right by his ear. “Have you no shame? Do you want the whole base to hear you?”

Medic drew back and thrust into him deeply. Spy howled.

“Do you want them to hear you?” Medic asked again, hand sliding up to the back of Spy's neck, pushing his face into the pillow. Spy's fingers scrabbled at the headboard and the sheets, trying to find something to hold onto as Medic bucked into him. He couldn't speak. The answer was _no,_ he didn't want everyone to hear him and come barging in to the rescue only to find him like this, ass in the air, moaning like a whore and naked from the neck down. But nor could he shut up. Not now, not ever had he been able to control the volume of his voice while he took his pleasure. It had gotten him trouble before, and nearly cost him his life once or twice. He was muffled by the pillow now, but only slightly.

Then Medic reached beneath him and wrapped a hand around his neglected cock, and Spy screamed.

“ _God! S'il vous plaît..._ Please... Oh, fuck, please...”

Medic grunted and tightened his grip, slamming into him with enough force to make the headboard hit the wall.

“Please what?” he asked with effort, stroking Spy in time with his thrusts.

“Don't... don't stop, don't- _oh...”_

The pressure was building at the base of his spine, like a spring coiling too tightly for its own good. His lungs were burning. He couldn't get enough air, between his screaming and the pillow covering most of his mouth. He could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes because this was  _too much,_ it was too fucking much for one person to bear and all he needed was  _more,_ just a little more, just-

Medic bit down on his shoulder,  _hard._

Spy's orgasm hit him like a train. He felt rather than heard the way his own voice cracked and tore. Every muscle in his body contracted at once, threatening to snap his bones and pull him apart from the inside out as he came, staining the once-pristine white sheets.

Medic's fingers wrapped around his throat, abruptly choking off his cries, pulling his head back as the doctor came deep inside of him, finally,  _finally_ letting out a moan of his own. It was high, keening, and the sound of it – knowing that  _he_ caused it – sent another ripple of pleasure through Spy's body.

When Medic slumped forward, Spy welcomed the weight on top of him. It was a good, solid weight, and he could feel Medic's heart hammering against his back. The doctor's fingers uncurled from his throat and his cock, his hands falling to the side. He hummed, and Spy could feel it vibrate all the way down his spine.

“Is this what they wanted from you?” he asked, when he was breathing normally enough to speak again. Even to his own ears his voice sounded raw and weak.

“Hmm?” Medic sounded tired, and utterly content. Spy shifted beneath him, craning to turn his head and see the doctor's face. He swallowed and wet his lips.

“The men you've had before. The ones who didn't want you this way, is this what they wanted? To be held down and fucked until they couldn't remember their own names?”

Medic said nothing. But the soft, gentle kiss placed to the back of his neck, just to the right of the stinging bite mark, was all the answer that Spy needed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i'm getting the hang of this smut thing but idk


	15. White Lies

Two weeks were an eternity at Coldfront.

The power cut out twice in the middle of the worst blizzard Medic had ever seen in his life, and the backup generators would only run at half power. Sniper nearly froze to death in his room, and would have if Demo hadn't had the good sense to check on him. Everyone was bundled up head to toe, and even Pyro had taken to wearing a heavy parka with a fur-hood that covered their already covered face. Scout, for all his bravado and talk of “ braving genuine Boston winters” stayed close to the fireplace and the vents at all times, teeth chattering and hands tucked into his armpits. Only Heavy was unaffected. He wore long sleeves instead of his usual t-shirts, and Medic spotted a pair of Sniper's wool-knit socks sticking out from the tops of his boots, but that was as far as it went.

Poor Engineer was nearly at his wits end trying to keep the place running. Between the faulty generators and the aging wiring, there was also the issue of keeping the pipes from freezing and rupturing. He enlisted the Pyro to braze the largest and most important pipes with periodic blasts from their flamethrower, blackening the metal with soot and making the entire subbasement smell of propane.

Seeing the dark circles under the man's eyes, Medic finally took pity on the Engineer and carefully explained the secret of keeping the boilers running, by adjusting the pressure gauges and running it hard til it threatened to overload. It would settle down after that, he told him, but didn't tell him how he knew. The Texan merely looked at him, eyes obscured behind the thick lenses of his goggles, and nodded. They all slept a little easier that night, once the roaring had died down and the heat kicked on.

The blizzard raged for three days and nights, trapping both RED and BLU in their respective bases. The fighting came to a reluctant halt. Soldier and Demo were caught launching snowballs across the field and were promptly hauled inside by an exasperated Heavy. Medic prescribed hot tea and chicken soup to everyone caught sniffling. When he wasn't taking the temperatures of pouting grown men or assuring Scout that “no, it isn't frostbite,” Medic found himself in his rooms, trying to stay warm and productive.

The latter was a challenge. But staying warm proved to be no issue at all, so long as Spy was in his bed.

The Frenchman was very big on the idea of give and take. An eye for an eye, equivalent exchange and so forth. What he wanted was information. He wanted facts and details and little tidbits that he must believe gave him some insight into the way Medic's mind worked. They worked out an unspoken arrangement. The longer Medic talked, the more pleasure he would receive. Spy always got his satisfaction in the end, one way or another.

It was strange to talk about his family, which was unfortunately one of Spy's favourite topics. Long dead as they were, their memories were something that Medic had largely suppressed. He had no time for sentimentality, and too many years had passed to be able to grieve.

He told Spy a version of the truth. He told him of his childhood in Stuttgart, with his doting father and his iron-willed mother. Medic was the youngest of three, and the only son. His _Mutter_ was a great patron of the arts, though she possessed no talents of her own. She lived through her children, pushing them into creative activities and serving as their harshest critic.

His eldest sister was a dancer. A ballerina, sent to the finest dance academy the family could afford. Medic's memories of her were foggy at best. A slender, solemn girl who used to pass him sweets under the dinner table and hold his hand in church. He told Spy, in a confusing haze of pleasure and melancholy, that she died young. He didn't say how. He didn't say that his eight year old self had been the one to find her, or that it was the first time he'd ever seen so much blood. That he had fainted and not eaten for a week while his father hid his tears in prayer and his mother slipped doses of laudanum into her evening sherry. Spy didn't need to know that. Medic didn't want to think about that.

His middle sister was a painter. Five years older than himself, with a wild streak and a gap-toothed, ever present smile, she railed against the constraints society had placed on her. She lived a full life and died unmarried and childless, surrounded by the friends she had made on her travels around the world. Medic had been unable to go to her before she passed. He couldn't let her see him. See his face, youthful and unlined, hair dark and full, eyes clear and bright and untouched by the years. She would not have understood. There wouldn't have been time enough to explain, anyway.

At his mother's insistence, Medic had taken up the violin, which he still played to this day. The Stainer that once belonged to his great grandfather was locked safely in its case, tucked away in a storage compartment until he felt like playing it.

Spy asked if the information in the file was true. If he was widower. Medic admitted that he was.

And when Spy asked about his wife, Medic held him by the back of the head and fucked his throat until he gagged, bracing his hands on Medic's thighs as he came down his throat. They didn't talk any more that night. Medic didn't want to talk about Ilse. She hadn't understood, either.

Sometimes Spy would push the boundaries of their agreement, or ask questions that Medic could not answer without lying. Where he worked before RED, when he had come to America, how long had he known the Administrator. Spy's tone was always casual, and he always waited until he thought Medic was too blissful to notice the direction the questions were taking. But when Medic tensed up or refused to answer, he was just as quick to kiss the tension away, to distract with touches and whispered promises. They could carry on as if nothing had happened. As if no lines had been toed, no secrets waiting to be uncovered in the dark. Medic knew what Spy wanted. What information he was really after. But this game, this back and forth of petty details and shameful pleasure, was much easier to play if they pretended they weren't playing at all. It was safer that way. Though Spy didn't know it, it was safer for both of them.

Spy never stayed the night. He would knock on Medic's door, or let himself in without a sound, and the game would begin. When they were both panting and sated, he would excuse himself to the little off-suite bathroom and clean up, before dressing in silence and bidding Medic goodnight. No matter the hour, no matter how dark or cold the base was, he would always leave Medic to sleep alone. And Medic didn't know exactly how he felt about that.

In the daylight hours he remembered Spy's terms. Attention. That was what he wanted, if only a small amount. Just a little acknowledgment of what was between them, and what they shared in the dark of the night. True to his word, Medic did his best to oblige the Frenchman's request. Casual touches, brushing against him in the locker room, taking the seat beside him at mealtimes, overhealing him at the start of a match. Simple gestures. And as far as he could tell, they were all that was required of him.

True to _his_ word, Spy left Medic alone during the off hours, and would back off when he was told to. Medic was immensely grateful for that. He needed the time to work. He had to make every hour count.

The new formula was finally completed and ready for testing. He still only had the small chunk of Australium to work with, but it was enough for initial trials. It took days to distill, under carefully monitored conditions, steadily heated by a small gas flame that burned constantly even when the power went out. The liquid form was unstable and susceptible to corruption. It had to be watched and agitated it regular intervals. The temperature had be precise before it could be mixed with another compound.

After two weeks of thinking and waiting and stress, it was finally ready.

The former dosage had all but worn off now. Medic had kept Spy at bay the past few nights, better to hide his trembling hands and general weariness. He felt worn out from the moment he opened his eyes in the morning, The heavy snow and wave of sickness that followed it easily kept him out of the field, giving him more time to work, and giving him an excuse to not be disturbed. Deep in the basements, warmed by the steadily rumbling boiler, Medic was prepping himself for testing.

He took a blood sample, as a “before” comparison, and set it aside. He took his blood pressure and his temperature and his blood sugar level, jotting them neatly in an old moleskin notebook that was filled with nothing but those exact measurements, dating back decades. Medic estimated a safe dosage would be somewhat lower than usual, given the concentration of the Australium in this version. He loosened his collar and rolled up his sleeves, cinching the tourniquet tight on his bicep, and withdrew some of the precious mixture into a large syringe.

 _Wish me luck,_ he thought to no one, and pushed the plunger down.

The effect was immediate. His arm burned where the needle had pierced the skin, and burning spread like liquid fire through his veins. Up his shoulder, down to his fingers, his neck and torso and legs. With every beat of his heart he could feel it spreading, feel it seeking out every vein and capillary and carving a searing along the neural paths of his body.

His breathing quickened. The air felt cold, so cold, in his lungs. His body was a furnace, blazing from within, threatening to cook itself alive. It _hurt_. It didn't usually hurt. Not like this, not this much. His skin prickled with gooseflesh. His scalp tingled, the joints in his hands seized and contracted. He grit his teeth to stop from crying out, biting his tongue in the process. The sharp tang of metal filled his mouth. Copper, and something else. Something pure, and powerful.

_Power._

That's what he felt, coursing through him. Filling every crack and crevice of his form, engulfing every inch of him. Not pain, but _fire._ Raw, unadulterated energy, crackling through him as though he were a conduit. His senses were aflame and his heart was going to tear itself out of his chest.

Medic buckled with a hoarse cry and fell sideways out of his chair. His head smacked against the cold concrete and stars exploded behind his eyes. Near him, he heard something shatter. But there was a ringing in his ears, louder and louder and loud loud _loud,_ it was everywhere, it was in his head and in the walls. He curled into a ball and covered his ears. His mouth was open, but he couldn't even hear himself scream.

And then the world went black.

 

* * *

 

“Did you dye your hair?”

Medic looked up sharply, finding Sniper squinting at him from across the table.

“ _Was?”_

Sniper gestured to the side of his own head and Medic's fingers flew to his temple.

“Coulda sworn you were going grey, Doc. Didja do something with it?”

“I am not going grey,” Medic said, affronted, and huffed when Sniper grinned. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

 

“Something is different,” Heavy said, frowning. Medic glanced up at him, adjusting the straps of his Medigun pack. The giant's face went slack with realisation. “Doktor is not wearing glasses!”

Medic reached up, nearly hitting himself in the face in an attempt to push up lenses that weren't there. He hadn't even noticed.

“I broke them last night,” he explained, offering a tight smile that he hoped looked reassuring. “Dropped them one too many times, I suppose.”

“Can you see?”

“ _Ja,_ it's nothing to be concerned about. I have an extra pair tucked away somewhere. I just have to look for them.”

“But can you fight?” Heavy pressed, looking unconvinced. Medic waved away his concerns with a gloved hand, hefting his bone saw in the other.

“I can take of myself, Heavy. Don't worry about me.”

 

“You did something, didn't you?”

Spy was gathering his clothes from the floor, replacing them piece by piece. His voice was hoarse, and there was a hot red line around his throat from where Medic had wrapped his tie around his fist and _pulled._

Medic was lying on his side, eyes closed. He opened them slowly. Spy didn't usually speak during this little ritual. He preferred to leave in silence, activating his cloak moments before closing the door behind him on the way out. That he was breaking his own protocol now was interesting.

“Hmm?”

“To yourself,” Spy clarified, turning to face him with his shirt in his hands. “Three days ago you barely had the energy to close the door in my face. Tonight you were -”

He swallowed, and Medic's eyes fixed on the motion of his bruised throat. He sighed.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, for the fifth time that day. A lie. A white lie that he was used to telling. That didn't make it any easier to see the suspicion in Spy's narrowed eyes. He sighed again, through his nose, and rolled onto his back. Casually, he tossed the covers back.

“Stay.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spy freeze.

“What?”

“You don't have to leave every night, Spy. I know how cold the Eastern corridor gets. You can stay here if you want to. We can talk in the morning.”

For a long time, Medic was sure Spy was going to leave. He closed his eyes again, focused on keeping his breathing steady, on allowing sleep to claim him. He felt heavy and sluggish, and thoroughly satisfied. He was drifting off, just starting to fade into unconsciousness, when he felt the mattress dip beside him.

In the morning, he woke alone. But the bed was still warm, and the pillow still smelled of cologne that wasn't his. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

 


	16. Work, Work, Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the short chapter, they'll be getting long again soon i just needed a bit of filler okay

The BLU Spy was up to something.

Spy had begun to notice a pattern to his behavior in the field. Their own Engineer could rest easy most days, because the BLU left him alone entirely. Not a single building had been sapped in an entire week. Even with Pyro glued to the Labourer's elbow, that should not have been possible.

Neglecting his other duties on the battlefield, Spy took up a vigil. He listened for any sounds of a cloak activating, watched for any trail of smoke from a disguise kit going into effect. From this little exercise he learned two things.

One, the BLU Spy was far more skilled than he had previously given him credit for.

Two, the BLU Spy was stalking Medic.

Looking over the statistics, the lists of who died, how often, and how, a pattern emerged. Medic was being backstabbed at an alarming rate, compared to every member of the team besides Heavy. They often they worked together, so this was unsurprising. But at an average of three or four times per match, depending on the length of the battle, Medic would inevitably be sent through Respawn by a knife driving between his shoulder blades. The BLU Spy was specifically neglecting other, easier targets to go after the Medic.

Of course, Heavy and Medic were the prime targets on the battlefield. But to focus on them, and only them...

Screwing up his courage and putting on the friendliest facial expression he could possibly manage, Spy quietly pulled Pyro aside and asked them to stick close to the Medic. If they did a good job, Spy would have a treat for them. He neglected to specify what the treat was, but that hardly seemed to matter.

When the creature lunged for him, Spy almost screamed. By the time he realised that he had been hugged, the mumbling abomination was already skipping off down the hall, leaving him distinctly discomfited for the rest of the day. But it worked. With Pyro by his side, Medic was considerably safer, and lived considerably longer out in the field.

But the question remained.

_Why_ was the BLU Spy fixating on the doctor?

Spy told himself that it was merely professional rivalry that led him to be so irked. Concern for a colleague, the fear that he was being left out of some great plan, or that he had missed a detail. It was easier to let himself think that than to wonder why his stomach turned painfully every time he heard the doctor cry out from across the battlefield.

They were sleeping together now.

Well, Medic slept. In Medic's bed, under his sheets, head resting on his pillow, Spy lay awake every single night. He couldn't sleep. Couldn't let himself drift off into unconsciousness, no matter how tempting it was. It was a remnant from his days on the run, and from the life he'd been leading ever since he signed up with RED. The risk of being caught unawares, groggy and defenseless, was an acute fear of his. He'd fallen asleep on a stakeout mission once, and woken up three countries over from where he started, naked and chained and shivering in a room with at least forty other boys. The months that followed were some of the most unpleasant memories from his very unpleasant life. And even here, behind a double locked door in a top-security base wired with all manner of sensors, with a strong arm thrown over his middle, Spy still did not feel safe.

He entertained himself by watching Medic sleep.

There was just enough moonlight, amplified by the pristine white snow on the ground, for Spy to see the man's face in the darkness. To see the way his brows pinched together when he was dreaming. The way the corners of his mouth turned down in a frown whenever Spy shifted. The way his lips would part, only a little, when he fell into the deepest of sleeps.

Medic did not sleep peacefully. He didn't go limp, or sprawl out, or look calm and relaxed in his unconscious state. He kept his hands in loose fists, like a child, and kept his back to the wall. Sometimes he would reach out and pull Spy against his chest, holding him so tightly it was almost uncomfortable. A few times he would lash out, jolting awake with a pained sounding gasp, only to blink around and drift back off again.

Once, and only once, he had whispered a name into Spy's hair. At least Spy thought it was a name. He'd been drifting off at the time, too drowsy and warm in the doctor's arms for his own good, and hadn't been paying attention. Whatever Medic said was whispered and quickly lost to the darkness.

Spy redoubled his efforts to stay awake, hoping Medic would speak more in his sleep, but so far nothing had come of it.

In the morning, every morning before the sun crept into the sky, Spy would disentangle himself from the doctor's arms and get up. He would put on his mask – or simply straighten it; some nights he didn't take it off at all – gather his clothes, and slip out before Medic could wake. He'd come to breakfast in a crisp new suit, smelling of soap and cologne and expensive cigarettes, and he would sit in whatever seat had been left open for him and pretend he didn't see the way Medic's pale eyes followed and settled on him for just a second too long. It was easier that way. Easier than looking back and smiling. Acting like nothing had happened. Acting like they were nothing more than colleagues. Not even friends.

But  _were_ they friends? Really?

Lovers seemed too romantic a term, and Medic had made his opinions on romance very clear. Friends implied that there was a camaraderie between them that didn't exist. They didn't  _hang out,_ as Scout would say. They were not friends in the way that Medic was friends with Heavy.

They fucked, and they talked, and sometimes one of them slept.

That was it.

Really.

So when Spy hunted down his BLU counterpart and botched the first stab, allowing him to stab again, harder, and _twist,_ he reasoned that it was simply bad luck. Everyone slips up. Even the best.

 

* * *

 

Medic had stopped wearing his glasses.

Rather, he had stopped  _using_ them, regardless of whether or not they sat on the bridge of his nose. He would hastily pull them out of his coat pocket whenever someone pointed out their absence and shove them onto his face, but he still peered owlishly over the rims instead of through the glass. Spy, at least, was not the only one to notice.

The doctor was drawing a great deal of attention to himself. Not intentionally, of course, but he'd developed a way of catching the eye.

His smile seemed brighter, Spy thought, if that made any sense. He wouldn't go so far as to call it  _dazzling,_ but nor would he chastise anyone who did. Medic's grin, coupled with the light in his eyes, made him appear to fairly glow at times. He looked... healthier. Younger. He looked  _good._

He was more energetic as well. In the bedroom as well at the battlefield. Spy felt like an overeager adolescent again, finding his release long before the doctor found his own, tiring out before Medic even began to slow down. In a fight, Medic was unstoppable. Cornered by the BLU Demo and Scout, he hacked them to pieces in three surgical, devastatingly precise swings of his bone saw and emerged mostly unscathed. And when the rest of their team pressed ahead, he surprised Spy by shoving him back against a wall, kissing him hard in their brief moment of privacy, breaking away with a fierce grin and dashing off toward the point without a word. And when Medic was out of sight, all Spy could do was stand there in shock, flushed with arousal, tasting the blood from Medic's split lip on his teeth.

They fought hard that day. And the blood-flecked smile Medic shot him from across the field was so infection that Spy couldn't help but smile back.

And yet, he was no closer to the truth.

Medic had forbidden any talk about his work. About the drug, or whatever the substance he injected into himself was. Any mention of his relationship with the Administrator was met with a quelling look and the doctor pulling away from him.

Spy had hoped that their newfound closeness would foster trust. He'd offered up details of his own past as a gesture of good faith. Stories of the little town he grew up in, near the Italian border, before he'd been taken to Marseille as a boy. He bragged of some of his most successful exploits during his days of proper spying. The Lyon job was one of his first, and one of his favourites, and perhaps he embellished some of the details to make himself look good, but Medic still seemed impressed. Not impressed to open up himself, however.

Another touchy subject was Medic's wife.

She had died. Spy knew that much. But he did not know when, he did not know how, and he did not know if Medic was involved. He doubted it. The doctor's mood shifted drastically at the mere mention of her, and the look in his eyes was enough to stop Spy from pressing the matter.

He suspected there was a great deal Medic wasn't telling him. About his family and his life, much less about himself. The doctor was a puzzle that didn't want to be solved. He was hiding the pieces of his past so no one could put them together and figure him out, and Spy was becoming frustrated.

He couldn't go snooping on his own. Bound by his promise and the knowledge that the Administrator was on to him, he had no hope of quietly digging for the information he needed.

But they couldn't stop him from speculating.

The drug. The Australium. The relationship with the Administrator. They were all connected somehow, and Spy felt like the answer was sitting right in front of his face.

But he could be patient. He could wait, and try to weasel his way into Medic's good graces and earn his trust. That had never been part of the plan, but he could work with it. Maybe it would take a little longer than he would like, but it certainly wasn't a chore.

_Not a chore at all,_ Spy thought later that night, watching Medic drift off to sleep beside him, limbs heavy with sleep and satisfaction.  _Not even a little bit._

 


	17. Indiscretion

“You look good,” was the first thing the Administrator said to him when he called in. Medic blinked at her in surprise.

“Thank you. You look very nice today as well-”

“No,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “You look _good,_ Doctor. Better than a man your age has any right to look. Explain.

Pretense broken, Medic grinned.

“ _It's working.”_

The Administrator jolted forward in her seat.

“You're certain?”

“Positive.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Why are you here? Why are you wasting time calling me when you have work to be getting done!”

Medic laughed. A rich, throaty sound that was pleasant even to his own ears. He sat forward as well, lacing his fingers together on the tabletop. If they were in the same room, really sitting across from one another, they'd have been nose to nose.

“Patience, _meine liebe Freundin,_ patience. The process is slow, and my supplies are limited. I can't work every hour of the day, not on this. Unless you weren't joking about sending in a replacement for me.”

“That would only disrupt the team,” she said shortly. “And call unwanted attention. You're needed right where you are. Tell me what you need.”

Medic took a deep breath.

“Nothing, right now. But in the near future, I'm going to need... rather a lot of Australium.”

“How much is _rather a lot?”_ Helen asked, narrowing her eyes, and Medic steeled himself. This was a tall order, and one she wouldn't be pleased to facilitate. But it was necessary. For both of them, it had to be necessary.

“I need ten bricks,” he said as bluntly as he could. “At least. All together, at once.”

Helen's eyes widened.

“That is-”

“A lot to ask, I am aware. But I'm afraid it is non-negotiable. What I have in mind – what _needs_ to be done – is quite intensive. There will be trials first, of course, but I expect the results to be favourable. And if they were... then we'll be ready to move into the final phase.”

The Administrator was silent. She was looking at him hard, searching his face through the screen for any signs of weakness, any signs of a trap. She should have known better. After all these years, all they'd been through together, all that they had done, she should have known to trust him. Just as he should have known not to be hurt by her distrust. Old habits died hard.

“How soon do you need it?” she asked at last, and Medic let out the breath he didn't realise he was holding.

“As soon as possible, and as much as you can get. This current trial, it will be enough to work with for several more weeks, I believe. Perhaps even a month. I don't need it right away, Helen, but I understand the risk you take in procuring and delivering it to me. I want... I want you to be prepared. If this works then nothing can stop us, but until it's complete...”

“We're vulnerable,” Helen said sourly, and he nodded. She sighed heavily, a rough, rattling sound from deep in her chest, and stubbed her cigarette out into the ashtray by her elbow. Medic hated to see her smoke. It only made his job more difficult. Even more infuriating was that she _knew_ that.

“And what of the Spy?” she said suddenly, catching him off guard. Medic blinked.

“ _Was?”_

“We're on the subject of vulnerabilities, aren't we?”

Blinked again, twice, in rapid succession.

“I don't see what that has to do with-”

“Erik,” she said, Medic went completely still. _“I know.”_

In the silence that followed, Medic could hear the world crashing down around him.

He could hear his heart pounding in his chest. He could hear the blood roaring in his ears, coursing through his veins. He could hear the wet, thick sounds of his throat working as he swallowed, trying to get some moisture back into his mouth. He could hear the background static from the television. He could hear, in his memory and his imagination, the crack of a specialised rifle that no Respawn system on earth could counter. He heard himself breath.

“I see.”

“I'm surprised at you, Doctor,” the Administrator said – and in this moment she was _The Administrator,_ and decidedly _not_ Helen – and Medic waited for the hammer to fall. “You're not usually so careless. Certainly not in a professional setting.”

“It was a moment of weakness,” he replied, fighting to keep his voice even. She snorted.

“More than one moment, if the surveillance footage is anything to go by.”

Medic stopped himself from blushing by sheer force of will. He frowned.

“I thought we agreed I was no longer going to be under surveillance.”

“We did. But it's hardly my fault you missed a camera or two.”

The doctor glared at the woman on screen, with her purple suit and her dark hair, streaked liberally with grey. He knew that thin face, and those cold eyes. He'd seen them when they were young, and when they were old, and in all the years in between, and yet her features still held him in icy intensity. Still, he could not read her.

He knew better than to think that meant she couldn't read him.

“I've been discreet,” he said stiffly, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity under her gaze. “Nothing that has happened has interfered with any of our work.”

“Yet.”

“It will not be a problem, Helen.”

“Convince me of that, or I'll have him killed.”

Medic's stomach turned over painfully. His face did not change, except to scoff.

“And what will that accomplish? You'll be down a trusted agent, and my bed will be cold. I can find another bedmate, quite easily, if I chose. But trust is hard to come by. You'd miss him more than I would.”

“Is that right?” she sneered. “If you're expecting sentiment to stay my hand-”

“We're too old for sentiment, _lieb,”_ Medic said quietly, his face darkening. “These games, this posturing, it is beneath us. If you think killing him will satisfy your need for control of my life, then do it. Kill him. Kill them all. See how far it gets you.”

She blinked at him, slowly, and became Helen once again.

“Watch yourself, Erik,” she said simply, and his veneer shattered. His smile was small, and forced, but genuine.

“I always do, _mein Freundin._ I always do.”

“Watch yourself with _him.”_

When the feed cut off and the screen went dark, Medic crumbled.

He slumped forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, breathing deeply. His heart was still hammering against his ribs, and the knots in his stomach weren't going to untangle themselves any time soon.

That was too close.

That was far, _far_ too close.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't right.

Medic frowned at the paper in front of him, then at the pencil in his hand. They were not cooperating today. The drawing – barely more than a rough sketch – wasn't coming out as he wanted it to.

He glanced surreptitiously at his subject, hoping a closer look would fix the problem.

Heavy sat across the room from him, in his customary seat by the window, glasses on his nose and a little book held in his giant hands. This was something they had both missed. Sitting together, merely enjoying each other's company, was something there had been little time for since coming to Coldfront. Admittedly, Medic was mostly at fault. He'd been too busy with work – and with Spy – to take much time for himself. Heavy had been patient to a fault, carefully waiting until Medic had the time for him and their little meetings.

The giant had come knocking and they had talked for a time. About the weather, about the team, about their respective little projects. Heavy told him about the new minigun he was designing, with the hope of making the spin-up both quieter and faster for the element of surprise. Medic explained that he was working on a new healing formula for the Medigun, which wasn't entirely a lie.

They played a brief game of chess; brief in that Medic was out of practice and had lost spectacularly.

Now, they had been comfortably settled in their respective seats for nearly an hour. Heavy was reading a Russian book written in tiny, cramped print while Medic was doing “paperwork.”

Heavy was one of his favourite subjects to draw. The doctor had a large collection of sketches of his teammates, almost all of them candid. Demo had posed for him on several occasions, mostly portraits, and Sniper had once caught him doodling and offered to hold still for a while. But as far as Medic knew, no one else was aware of his secret stash of renderings. If anyone ever found them, he would have a lot of explaining to do.

Each member of his team had their own unique, compelling features, but Heavy was a marvel of nature and physiology. Broad of shoulder and barrel-chested, he possessed a remarkable strength in his upper body. His legs were comparatively short, but sturdy. He was a powerfully built man, with a surprisingly gentle nature. His strong jaw and high, sharp cheekbones, a small crooked nose, broken and mended many times, all formed a handsome, if hard, and open face.

But it was his eyes that Medic found the most captivating.

There were years beyond measure hidden in the dark, glacial blue of Heavy's irises. Years of pain and suffering and hardship that could not be imagined or spoken of. Heavy's eyes were cold, even when he smiled. Even full of joy and life, that darkness lingered.

It was a quality that Spy's eyes possessed as well. And it was that particular quality that Medic was finding impossible to capture on paper right now.

He looked up again, frustrated, and started when he saw that Heavy was no longer in his seat.

“Very good,” the giant's voice rumbled from behind him, and Medic nearly fell out of his chair. He spun with wide eyes, one hand slamming down to cover the drawing in front of him.

“You- I can explain!” he said, expecting the big man to be angry or confused. He didn't expect the amused smile tugging at his wide mouth, or the gentle hand placed on his shoulder.

“Doktor is always drawing me,” Heavy said, “But only when you think no one sees it. And I never get to see when it's done.”

He nodded his chin at the page and Medic took the hint, slowly uncovering the pencil sketch and trying to relax. He didn't feel threatened, and Heavy didn't seem to be upset with him. With roughly three hundred pounds of muscle towering over him, it was hard to be calm.

Heavy regarded the drawing with the gaze of a scholar appreciating a proper work of art, though the sketch was far from it. A few lines of graphite, most of the detail and shading was focused around the face and arms, with light, lumpy suggestions of shoulders and a torso. Medic really _had_ been doing paperwork earlier, and this was only the product of about twenty minutes of work. The eyes were dark smudges, all wrong, fuzzy from being erased too many times. Heavy hummed appreciatively nonetheless.

“Is better than I expected,” he said, and Medic choked indignantly.

“I wasn't finished.”

“I know. But you know what I look like, Doktor. You look often enough. And this is not the first time you draw me.”

Medic looked at Heavy, then at the drawing, then back to the man himself. He frowned.

“You have a difficult face,” he admitted with reluctance. “And you kept moving.”

“Was waiting for you to ask me to sit still.”

“I was trying to be discreet,” Medic grumbled. Heavy laughed softly.

“Is nobody here but us, Doktor.”

Heavy shifted slightly, as though he meant to lean closer.

The infirmary door banged open.

“Doc!”

Heavy jerked upright and stepped back as Scout burst in, eyes wide and breathing hard. Medic stood at once.

“Scout? What's wrong?”

“You gotta see this!” the boy said, hopping excitedly from foot to foot. “Both 'a ya, come on! Something' happening over at the BLU base, Sniper's got a good view all set up. The whole place is going crazy over there!”

Medic frowned and turned to Heavy, who was frowning as well. Without a word, they followed the insistent American out the door.

Sniper's perch was on the roof. They emerged out into the chilly air to find the rest of the team already gathered, staring over the hills at the building in the distance.

Scout wasn't lying. The base was lit up like a Christmas tree. Lights and klaxons were blaring all over the place, bouncing off the snow and echoing through the light fog. Sniper was peering through the scope of his rifle, and Demo had a pair of binoculars hung around his neck, which were currently being used by Soldier. Pyro was huddled close to the Engineer for warmth, and the amiable Texan's mouth was set into a thin line. They didn't turn as the new group approached.

“ _Was ist los?”_ Medic asked in concern, wrapping his arms around himself. It was very cold up there, and he had neglected to bring his coat. Beside him, Sniper grunted.

“Dunno. But they're runnin' around like mad in there. Got their kit on and everything. Something's up.”

“Any of 'em come out yet?” Scout asked, elbowing his way between Heavy and Medic, his teeth already chattering. Sniper lowered his rifle and shook his head.

“Nah, they're staying inside. Whatever's going on in, it's happening in the base. Here ya go, Doc. Have a look.”

He passed the gun, and Medic took it at once. He hefted it up to his shoulder as best he could – it had been a very, very long time since he'd used this sort of weapon, but the muscle memory was still there – and pressed his eye to the scope.

Through the magnification, he focused on the bright windows of the enemy base just in time for the BLU Soldier to jog past, helmet bobbing as he appeared to shout orders to his team. Hot on his heels was the BLU Pyro, flamethrower puffing menacingly.

A floor down, the BLU Scout was a blue blur, streaking down the hall with his bat held high. He passed the BLU Sniper, who was struggling to reload his SMG.

Something was inside the base, and they were afraid.

Medic lowered the rifle and handed it back to the Australian, his brow furrowing deeply.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked, looking around to his teammates. Engie shrugged.

“Pyro's the one who spotted it,” he said, his arm tightening around the masked firestarter. “They dragged me up here, and we found Soldier along the way. That was about ten minutes ago.”

“They've gotten louder since then,” Demo said, stooping slightly so the binocular cord didn't dig into his throat while Soldier peered through them intensely. Pyro mumbled an agreement.

Engineer opened his mouth to add something else, but before he could, there was a noise like thunder, and the eastern corner of the BLU base exploded.

“Bloody hell!” Demo swore, clutching at the parapet as the shockwave hit them. Smoke was pouring out of the shattered windows, the walls licked by flames, visible even without magnification. He yanked the binoculars out of Soldier's grasp and held them up to his one good eye. “The sprinklers are comin' on now, lucky for them. If they don't get that fire out soon...”

The RED team watched in chilly silence as the BLU base burned, its inhabitants scurrying back and forth in panic. The smoke billowed thick and black into the sky, carrying on the air to sting at their eyes and throats. Medic blinked at the pain, turning away when it became too difficult to breath. He looked around at his coughing teammates, Scout with his t-shirt pulled up over his nose, Sniper covering his face with his arm, Soldier staring resolutely into the distance, and did a quick count. His brow knitted into a frown.

“Where is Spy?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bruh i said plot was gonna be happening remember


	18. In Memoriam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to preface, i seriously considered naming this chapter "daddy issues"
> 
> still not entirely convinced i shouldn't have.

It was odd to have a day off in the middle of the week, without weather or other environmental concerns to worry about. The base was still and quiet. Its inhabitants were all invested in their own little projects, speaking only in passing, trying to ignore the plume of smoke that was visible from every window.

The eastern half of the BLU base was in a bad way. It matched the little outbuilding at the halfway point, its walls blackened by soot, windows blown out, a gaping, jagged hole where part of the roof once was. The blaze had been extinguished before it could spread to the lower floors or the other side of the building, but there was no hiding exactly how much damage had been done. They had all watched as the support beams gave way, the roof collapsing inward in a peacock's tail of sparks.

No one had even noticed when Spy slipped behind them to join in the observation, casually pretending he had been there the whole time.

Medic shot him a look, once, when he cleared his throat. But if the doctor had any suspicions or anything to say, he kept it to himself.

Spy slept in his own bed that night.

He didn't go to Medic every night – and the doctor had yet to ever come to _him_ – and wasn't worried about being missed. He _was_ worried about the charred, soot-stained remains of one of his suits, and the raw, itching burn to the back of his right shoulder. There would be no hiding that if his clothes came off. The best he could hope for was Medic healing him and fixing it unknowingly on the battlefield, or getting it patched up as he went through Respawn.

Unfortunately, with the fighting postponed, both of those options were highly unlikely.

He would simply have to grit his teeth and bear it.

 

The team was in a strange mood.

No one wanted to be alone, and yet no one wanted to voice their concerns for fear of being seen as weak or cowardly. There were plenty of murmurs about the fire, and about what had caused it, but no one had any answers. When Miss Pauling's clipped, professional tones told them over the loudspeaker that they wouldn't be fighting, everyone had listened with bated breath for some sort of explanation or reassurance.

None came.

With nothing to do, and no desire to be cut off or isolated for fear that the danger may not be contained, the team had congregated in the space that had been converted into a common room, and began to talk.

It was simple things at first. The Engineer was working on some new weapon that was supposed to prevent the enemy Medic from deploying an Über. Scout had recently acquired a rare and incredibly valuable baseball card from some poor fool who didn't know its true value and had carelessly traded it away. Soldier was expanding his collection of heads.

Eventually, as the sky grew darker and the temperature dropped, they all huddled closer to the fireplace for warmth, and no one was surprised when Demo produced a flask.

The drink was strong. It burned going down, and Spy wasn't entirely sure what it even _was,_ but it spread warmth down into his frozen fingertips and made his head just foggy enough to be pleasant. He passed it on to Sniper beside him. The tall man knocked it back without so much as a flinch.

The conversation became a bit more interesting after the second pass.

“So you didn't meet your parents til you were a kid?” Scout asked the Demoman, his leg bouncing excitedly, as it always did when he sat still for too long. The Scotsman had made off-hand comments about his upbringing before, but only when he was very, very drunk, and too incoherent to be make sense of. Until now, nobody had asked for clarification. He sighed heavily.

“Aye. Tha's the way of the Highland Demolition Clans. They put ye with an outside family til yer gifts manifest. Then yer real family comes and picks ye up, like nothin' ever happened.”

“But what if your gifts don't show up or whatever?” Scout pressed, leaning forward to accept the flask from Pyro. “They just leave you there?”

Demo nodded solemnly.

“Tha's the way of it. If the child doesn't have the gift, then it's the end of the clan.”

“They don't try to have more kids?”

“It's against tradition. One family, one child. Anymore'd be cheating.”

He spoke so seriously that Spy could almost believe him. He knew next to nothing about the Demoman, or the history of his so-called people. He could simply be mad. Spy didn't know. Perhaps one day he would remember to ask.

Scout made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough, swaying slightly as he handed the drink off to Heavy. There was colour in his cheeks, but he was holding his liquor much better than anyone expected.

“Man, I can't even imagine that,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where I'm from, _everybody's_ got tons of kids. At least three. I mean, I got seven brothers and that's kinda overkill, but we weren't outta place or nothin'.”

“Seven?” Engie asked, his hardhat rising with his eyebrows. “Good lord, boy, that's a lotta mouths to feed.”

The young runner simply shrugged.

“I guess. It was hard sometimes, but we never went hungry. All my brothers are older than me, so they were all workin' when I was a kid. Ma always did right by us, though.”

“What aboot your dad?” Demo asked, and Scout grimaced.

“He ain't around.”

“Disgraceful,” Soldier grunted, and all eyes snapped to him in surprise. “If a man impregnates a woman, he should stay with that woman, no matter how insufferable the offspring may be!”

“Hey!”

“It is his duty as an American!”

“No, man, it's ain't like that. He- he died,” the boy confessed, dipping his head enough to hide his face for a moment. “'Fore I was born. Picked a fight with the wrong guys in a bar, or somethin'. Ma don't like to talk about it.”

“Ye never knew him?” Demo prompted gently. Scout shook his head.

“I got pictures and stuff, but naw. Never even got to meet him. My brothers did, though. Most of 'em. We aren't- I mean, my Ma, she... Some of us got different dads, okay? But mine stuck around a while, I guess. My two older brothers before me, he's their dad, too. They knew him. And I guess Ma loved him, but the way they talk about him...”

He paused, frowning, and it was the most thoughtful expression Spy had ever seen on the young man's face. He took a deep breath.

“I don't think he was good to her,” Scout said quietly. His fingers picked idly at the wrappings on his hands. “I don't think he was good to them, either. It's probably best he ain't around no more, ya know?”

A few members of the group nodded solemnly. Sniper cleared his throat.

“You got the opposite problem 'a mine,” the Australian grunted roughly. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses, for once, but his eyes remained mostly hidden by the low brim of his hat. Spy knew they would be blue and clear, too used to be covered to effectively hide what was going on beneath them. Sniper sneered, and point of a crooked canine flashed behind his lip. “The old fucker just won't give up and die.”

That got a few laughs.

“What's your old man like, Slick?” Engineer asked good naturedly, and Sniper drank deeply before answering.

“He's a right bastard, that's what he is,” he said without venom. “He's good to Mum. She'd have his head if he weren't. He's good to the bloody sheep, too. Good farmer, and a good husband. Stubborn, though. S'far as I'm concerned, that's the only thing we have in common.”

“Ye don't get on with him?” Demo asked lightly, and Sniper snorted.

“That's puttin' it a bit lightly, mate. Bloody hate each other's more like it. Well, no, not _hate,_ but he- he's such a-”

The bushman frowned, and paused for so long he might as well have been done speaking.

Any other time and Spy would have been taking notes. All these pieces of information about his colleagues, little chunks of knowledge that could be used against them in the future, and all of it being offered so freely. It was a veritable banquet of information, but Spy couldn't bring himself to partake. This was a rare moment. They were bonding. As colleagues and as a team. Perhaps even as friends. While he certainly wouldn't forget any of what they told him, this was not the time or place to be scheming against them,

“M'not good enough for him,” the Sniper said, softly, at last. “Never 'ave been. Even when I was a kid, nothin' I ever did was what he wanted. He didn't like it when I left for school and he didn't like it when I left there and came home. Taught me how to track and didn't want me workin' as a guide. Taught me how to shoot, now he's pissed that I make a living out of it. No matter what I do, no matter how much bloody money I send him for the farm, it's never been enough. _I've_ never been enough. M'not the kid he wanted. And I'm a lousy bloody farmer.”

The Australian drank again, this time barely more than a sip, and roughly handed off the flask. The circle was silent for a moment.

“I'm sure he's proud of you, Sniper,” Medic said quietly.

The doctor had been silent the entire time, taking small sips when the drink came his way, looking down at his hands as his teammates spoke. Now, he had the floor.

“Wot?” Sniper said, looking genuinely surprised. Medic smiled slightly.

“It is a father's job to push their children,” he said, “to be the best that they can. To be better than them. Sometimes they push too hard, or set their expectations too high. Sometimes they cannot find the words, or expect their children to know when they've done well. Some men simply don't know how to stop pushing. But it is done out of love. You are good enough for him. Every child is good enough in their father's eyes.”

“Are you a father?” Spy blurted suddenly, forgetting himself. Forgetting that they weren't alone. Immediately, he knew it was the wrong thing to say.

Medic flinched as though he'd been struck, but it was too late. Six and a half pairs of eyes were fixed on him in interest. Medic's own eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open uselessly. He paled considerably, and the quiet confidence from the drink had left him in an instant. He was a man floundering, and all anybody was doing was to watch.

Engineer, bless him, broke the sudden, ringing silence of Medic's torment by clearing his throat.

“I am,” he said loudly, drawing everyone's attention away. Medic looked at him in grateful anguish, and the Texan nodded infinitesimally. “I'm a- well, I've a got a little one at home. Little Rosalie, but we mostly just call her Rosie. I've... I think I've got some pictures of her here, if you fellas wanna see?”

Amid the general chorus of agreement, and in the moments it took for the Engineer to dig around in the pockets of his overalls, Medic quietly stood up and left the room.

Spy watched him go with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

He'd made a mistake. He had crossed a line, and he had done in front of their colleagues. Asked a question that Medic couldn't hide the answer to by rolling over in the dark, turning his face so that Spy couldn't see. But he'd seen it then. Everyone had seen.

Turning his gaze from the door, Spy caught Heavy's eye. It seemed they were both of the same mind, to look after the doctor as he went. Now all they could was look at each other, and wonder.

Spy found it increasingly difficult to sit still as the night wore on.

He sat through Engineer proud, sappy speech about his daughter - “she'll be three years old next August, but see how big she is already” - and glanced at the pictures as they were passed to him. A chubby child dressed in yellow frills, with thick blonde ringlets and her father's green eyes, chewing on her own thick fingers. It made him feel hollow inside. He passed the pictures quickly away.

He half listened as Heavy spoke about his sisters, continually glancing from his watch to the door and back again. Spy felt sick. He wanted to leave. Wanted to run down to the infirmary and apologise, but was too afraid of what might happen when he got there. Medic would be angry with him. The doctor had sent him away before, when he was too tired or too busy, but never in anger. And never, ever had Spy seen such an expression of torment on his face before.

When it was clearly his turn to speak, and all eyes were on him, Spy offered as much of the truth as he could bring himself to share: his mother was a whore, who died penniless and young. He never knew his father.

No one asked for elaboration, for which he was grateful. His childhood was a web of horrors that he had spent a lifetime trying to forget. Now was not the time to go digging through that again. There never _would_ be a time for that, as far as he was concerned.

It wasn't until midnight, when the fire was dying and the wind was whistling fiercely outside that they conversation came to a natural end. Soldier had shared his memories of his mother, which were muddled and unclear, but the man was almost sure she was blonde, and smelled of apples. Even Pyro chimed in. They mumbled for a surprisingly long time, but even with the helpful hand gestures they offered Spy was completely unable to decipher what they were saying. If anyone else was having trouble, they kept it to themselves. It was late. Everyone was tired, and drunk, and longing for the warmth of their own beds. Demo collapsed face first into the sofa and was left there, a ratty blanket carefully tucked over him by a swaying-on-his-feet Sniper. Engineer and Soldier tried to pass through the door together, arms slung over each other's shoulders, and it took them a couple tries to get it right while Pyro staggered sweetly after them.

Heavy looked longingly toward the doorway Medic had vanished down, but Spy saw him shake his head before turning away, trundling off toward the dorms. He and Sniper were the last to go, waving shaky farewells as they went their separate ways.

Spy immediately made for the med bay.

His heart was pounding loud enough that he was sure Medic would hear him coming before he ever got to the door. He had no idea what would be waiting for him. Didn't know if he should prepare to be hit or shouted at or sent away. And then what? What would he do if the doctor sent him away, and didn't want him to come back?

“ _Docteur?”_ he called softly, knocking softly on the double doors of the infirmary. They were unlocked. Spy stuck his head through and looked around.

Medic's office had been torn apart.

All of the lights were off, but the light from the hall carried in and provided enough to see the chaos. Books pulled from their shelves, drawers emptied and overturned with their contents on the floor. Papers, pens, and surgical instruments littered the floor. The doors to several cabinets had been ripped from their hinges. The Medigun was hanging awkwardly, as thought it had been yanked in the wrong direction from its harness on the ceiling. Spy stepped inside, mouth hanging open in shock, and heard broken glass crunch underfoot.

“ _Docteur?”_ he called again, louder, his hand slipping around the from of his jacket to curl around the handle of his balisong. “Are you here? Are you alright?”

“I'm here,” said Medic's voice, from somewhere in the darkness. “I'm fine.”

Spy squinted into the dark, waiting for his eyes to adjust, not yet lowering his knife. He found Medic's silhouette in the shadows. Sitting behind his desk, in the middle of all the destruction, apparently unharmed. Spy approached him slowly.

“You're not hurt?”

Medic sighed heavily.

“No, Spy. I'm not hurt. You can put that down. There's no one else here.”

Spy put his foot down and felt something snap beneath it. He was close enough to make out Medic's features now. His tie was undone, and his waistcoat had been removed. It looked as though he'd run his hands through his hair once or twice.

Spy stopped in front of the desk, carefully folding his blade and tucking it back inside of his suit. He tried to remain composed, despite the dread in his chest.

Was all this destruction because of him?

“I'm sorry,” he said. It sounded weak, even to his own ears. A pitiful excuse, and plea for forgiveness. Medic simply sighed again.

“You were bound to ask eventually,” he murmured, his chair creaking as he shifted. “I should have... I thought I would have been more prepared to answer.”

“You don't have to,” Spy said quickly. _Your face was answer enough._ “It was careless of me, to bring this up in front of the others. But you... you don't have to answer. I will not ask again.”

Medic was silent for so long that Spy feared he may never speak again. Tentatively he reached out, laying his fingertips on the desktop, hoping he might find the doctor's hand on the darkness. There was something on the desk. Pieces, all broken up, of what felt like metal and plastic. Spy couldn't see what it was. He didn't bother to look. He was too afraid to take his eyes off the man sitting across from him, scared he might vanish into shadow if he looked away, and that would be the end of it. The end of them both.

When Medic did speak, finally, his voice was the softest Spy had ever heard it. But in the silence, it might as well have been a gunshot.

“Is a father still a father if his children are dead?”

Spy's breath caught in his throat.

This was what he was afraid of. More than being sent away, he feared this. This heartbreak, this anguish that he had seen in Medic's eyes when the question was posed. To hear it in his voice now, only his voice, was nearly unbearable.

More than anything, Spy wanted to take it all back. To rewind and stop himself from being so _stupid,_ to take this pain away and cast it out and never let it be spoken of again. Let the question go unasked and unanswered. Let them be as they were, without this terrible knowledge between them.

And yet, more than anything, Spy wanted to know more.

He stood where he was, breathing as lightly as he dared, and waited. Medic rubbed a hand over his face, and Spy wondered suddenly if he'd been crying.

“I haven't spoken of my children in many years,” the doctor said. “It's been so long, I don't- I don't know where to begin.”

_At the beginning,_ Spy wanted to prompt.  _Tell me everything. Every moment of your life,_ Docteur, _I would gladly hear it all._

He remained silent, and unmoving. If he interrupted, the moment would fade, and they would simply be two men in the dark, unable to speak or face each other in the light. Spy couldn't bear it.

“My son was a soldier,” Medic breathed. He could have been speaking to himself. “Joseph. _Mein Sohn,_ he was-”

He paused, took a deep, shuddering breath, and tried again.

“He was an idealist. A good boy, very loyal to his country. He was born here, in America, but this was never home to him. To any of us. And when Germany went to war, it was the excuse he needed to leave. To fight for a country he had never seen, to protect its people that he had never met. He was always so kind.

“He served as a field medic. He wanted- he _thought_ he wanted to be like me. To help others when they could no longer help themselves. I don't think he ever understood how- how different we were. He saved many lives, in the years he served, I know that. But the losses... The sheer number of casualties was overwhelming. I didn't believe the letters he sent me. The things he saw, and the things he did... I still don't believe them. It's easier that way, to imagine- to believe he died at peace. A father can hope.”

Medic frowned, his brow furrowing. It was a pained expression.

“I sent them my son,” he said, and Spy could hear the anger there. Years, maybe decades old. Burning just as bright and raw as though the wound were fresh. As though it would never really heal.

“I sent them my son, and they sent me a letter, and a medal, and a flag. I sent them my son, and they could not even return his body to me. My great country... and they couldn't even find enough of him to bury.”

Spy closed his eyes.

He didn't need to know the details. It was a story he'd heard a hundred times before, in a hundred different ways. Brave young boys going off to fight for their country, for their national honour and pride. Brave young boys, dying horribly and alone, far away from the love of their families or the mercy of their gods. Medic's son was one of those boys. Brave and faceless in death. Forgotten by all, except those who couldn't forget.

Spy wanted to step around the desk and wrap the doctor in his arms. To hold him until the memory faded, and give the promise of a better, brighter day in the morning.

But Medic wasn't done. And he would remain, still and silent, until the moment was done.

“Irena was just a girl when Joseph passed,” he continued, softly. “They were never close, but his d- his death affected her. She didn't understand it. Didn't understand _why_ it had to happen, why there was so much violence in the world. She believed we were better than that. All she wanted was to end it. To make it easier for people to live, to help each other. She was so _smart._ Always so smart...”

He broke off, and the barest hint of a smile was heartbreaking as it flitted across his face.

“She was a scientist. She fought so hard for respect, for the right to work toward what she believed in. They stole her work, of course. Those charlatans at the university, they took everything she had, but she never stopped trying. Never stopped believing in the good of the world. She loved... _life._ Ilse couldn't stand it, how happy she was all the time, but I thought it was beautiful.”

_Ilse?_ Was that Medic's wife?

Was that the name he had whispered, once and only once, in the deepest of sleeps when he thought no one could hear?

Spy held his tongue. He didn't want to interrupt. Didn't want to change the subject, or accidentally draw the man out of the memory trance he seemed to be in. There was an end to this. An unhappy one. Medic's frown, the thousand-yard stare in his eyes, told Spy all that he needed to know.

“I don't remember where I was when they told me what had happened,” Medic said, lifting a hand to his nose. It was an automatic reaction, Spy realised, to adjust glasses that weren't there. His hand felt limply into his lap. He sighed. 

“An accident, they said. There had been an accident, and they'd only just found the car. They had to- to wait for it to stop raining, so they could dredge it up. They were... still inside. Irena, and her husband, they were still in the car when they pulled it out of the water the next day. They were coming home. They'd gone to the theatre, and I was looking after L-”

He cut himself off, and paused. For a moment, the only sound in the room was of his breathing.

“My children have been dead for many years, Spy,” he said, and Spy jolted at the acknowledgment of his presence. In truth, he'd almost forgotten he was even there, standing out in the open, and not listening unseen from the shadows. He was a part of this. They were here, together. Medic sighed, and the shadows stretched long on his face. He looked older than Spy had ever seen him. “And yet I remain. My wife, my son and my daughter, my sisters and my parents. They are all gone now. I am the only one left to remember them. And I am alone. Except for-”

He swallowed, and his eyes shifted in the moonlight. Spy's eyelids batted in something that was not quite a blink.

“Except for me.”

And when Medic looked at him, Spy understood that was not what he was going to say.

“It's late,” the doctor said, blinking away the wetness on his eyelashes. He wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand and cleared his throat, standing slowly. Spy remained where he was.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked quietly, as Medic got to his feet. Medic stared at him for a moment. His shoulders slumped.

“No. No, I don't want you to go. But... if you would prefer...”

Spy hushed him with a simple raise of his hand, finally –  _finally_ – moving around the desk. He placed a hand on Medic's arm, and couldn't tell which one of them was shaking.

“Come, _Docteur._ Let us sleep.”

Medic nodded numbly.

He allowed himself to be led through the debris of his office to his own bedroom, and Spy closed the door behind them. They undressed together in the dark, without their usual frantic eagerness to get each other's clothes off. This was not the time for that.

Spy draped his jacket and pants over the back of the chair, slipped soundlessly out of his shoes and tucked them neatly side by side. In the heavy darkness, he removed the second skin that were his mask and gloves, and set them in their usual place on the bedside table. He left on his thin cotton undershirt, grateful for the dark so that Medic couldn't see his wounded back, and simple dark briefs. Medic changed into a pair of light sleeping pants and kept his socks on, pulling back the covers and climbing in the first, to be closest to the wall. Spy slipped in behind him and pulled the blankets over them both. He pressed their bodies together, wrapping his arm around Medic's chest to pull him close, and was pleasantly surprised when Medic's hand found his own.

With their fingers intertwined, Spy lay still and listened to the doctor's heartbeat. To the slowing of his breath, and the little sounds he made as sleep claimed him.

He thought about Medic's children, and all the questions he still had. All the little things that didn't add up, that he didn't understand. Despite all that had been shared, Spy felt as though he were missing something. As though there was some great secret he was on the cusp of uncovering, but was always kept just out of his reach. 

He thought about how warm Medic was, and how tightly the other man was holding his hand. He thought about how good the doctor smelled, and how soft the pillow beneath his head was, and how strangely, wonderfully  _good_ it felt to simply lay there with him. Together, in the dark, where no one could see them. Maskless and bare. No one could judge them here. And though it was foolish, even dangerous to think so, Spy felt as though no one could touch them.

When his eyelids began to droop, he didn't think anything of it.

While his limbs became heavy and warm, sore muscles relaxing into the softness of the bed, Spy didn't even think to fight it.

_I am safe,_ he thought, for the first time in a very, very long time. He felt calm. He felt at peace.

_I am safe._

 


	19. Preferential Treatment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i just want to warn everyone that Dragon Age: Inquisition is coming out tomorrow and that's kind of a big deal for me, so this story may have to go on a semi-hiatus until i've regained control of my life
> 
> worst case scenario is i don't update for a month or two. but i really don't want that to happen. at the very least, updates are just going to be even more irregular than usual. but right now i have a good idea of where i'm going with this and what needs to happen, and i don't want to lose the inspiration or willpower to finish it.
> 
> so, with that in mind, please enjoy what i've written so far and i will try to write more for you soon :)

Waking was a slow occurrence.

It was never easy to come to consciousness when one was so comfortable. Medic felt warm and heavy beneath the covers in the chilly chilly winter morning, feet tangled lightly in the sheets at the bottom of the bed.

There was a body pressed against him. A warm, soft body snuggled into his chest, and a slender arm thrown loosely over his hip. He could feel the breath of another ghosting over his jaw, laying face to face as they were. His own arm was curled around a slim waist, holding that form close, keeping as little space between them as possible.

For a moment, Medic imagined opening his eyes to honey-blonde hair and soft brown eyes, rosy cheeks and sweet, pink lips.

Then he remembered where he was.

Medic cracked open his eyes and looked at the person in his arms. The short, dark hair and stubbled jaw. Thin lips on a thin face, belonging to the thin man he was holding beneath the covers.

Spy had spent the night.

It was odd, to see him in this light. In the warm, natural light of the sun instead of harsh florescents or half hidden in shadows. He looked younger, somehow. Or perhaps he simply looked more peaceful.

The creases around his eyes and lips were softened in sleep. Even the sharpness of his high, hollow cheeks and hooked nose seemed lessened in this state. He looked more human without the mask. Less the Spy, simply a man.

He was handsome. Medic had noticed that the first time he laid eyes on him, in a cropped, slightly blurry photograph that he'd studied only briefly. There was a deep, jagged scar on his jaw, running from just below his ear nearly all the way to the point of his chin. It was faded by time, clearly an old wound. And a painful one. Medic didn't know how he had gotten it. Maybe one day he would ask.

Perhaps feeling the eyes on him, a small crease appeared in Spy's brow. He frowned, barely more than a twitch of his lips, and turned his face further into Medic's shoulder.

Slowly, lids heavy with sleep, Spy opened his eyes.

He froze.

“ _Guten Morgen,”_ Medic said quietly, and Spy's eyes snapped to his face. He held still, waiting to see what the other man would do. From the look on his face, it was clear Spy hadn't intended to sleep here, much less allow Medic to wake before him. For a moment Medic expected to be pushed away. For Spy to throw the covers back and hastily dress in cold, indifferent silence.

Instead, to his surprise, Spy relaxed back into his arms.

“ _Quelle heure est-il?”_ he murmured, letting his eyes fall shut again.

“ _Was?”_

Spy sighed heavily, his breath hot across Medic's chest.

“This is why we have to speak English... What time is it?”

Medic lifted his head and squinted at the little alarm clock on his bedside table.

“Almost six-thirty,” he said, dropping his head back onto the pillow. Spy groaned and turned slightly, pressing his scratchy cheek into Medic's shoulder.

“I'm going to kill the Demoman.”

Medic chuckled.

“I think you drank too much.”

“That was _not_ a drink. It was a potion of some sort. Something evil, that has crawled inside my head and made a nest there.”

“I can fix that,” Medic said, smiling, rubbing a comforting hand over Spy's back. Spy hissed in pain and Medic jerked his hand away.

“ _Was ist falsch?”_

“Nothing,” Spy said quickly, trying to roll away. He gasped when Medic held him fast and pulled him closer. Pulling the covers back and flipping the now-struggling Spy onto his stomach, Medic got a good look at what Spy was trying to hide from him.

A large, nasty looking burn was spread across most of Spy's right shoulder and back. It was red and raw, obviously fresh, wet and painful looking. Medic stared at the wound, processing where it must have come from, and what it meant.

Slowly, he loosened his grip. Spy moved just as slow, righting himself, turning his back away from Medic's gaze. His expression was guarded. Medic simply looked at him.

“I'm going to get you something for your headache,” Medic said carefully. “Then you're going to let me have a look at that. Then, you and I are going to have a talk, _ja?”_

After a moment's hesitation, Spy nodded curtly.

He sat up and allowed Medic to climb out of the bed. He found his robe and slippers and slipped them on, not allowing himself to look back as he left the room. He didn't like watching Spy put his mask on, or take it off. The transition was jarring to him. He didn't have a name for the man without the mask that so often made his way into his bed, but he certainly wasn't Spy.

Medic opened the door out to his infirmary, and was greeted with chaos.

He steadfastly ignored the scattered books and papers as he made his way to the sink. He didn't look at all the cabinets, raided and rattled as they were, in the completely unacceptable state of disarray that he had left them in. He pretended not to hear the broken glass crunching underfoot as he padded across the room, or to see the overturned tray of surgical instruments littered on the floor. There would be time enough to deal with that later. For now, he grabbed a – relatively – clean beaker and filled it with cold water, digging around for a seltzer tablet and dropping it in. He set the glass on the bare examination table and went to tend to his birds.

Their wooden enclosure was the only thing undamaged by his rage the night before. They had been frightened, he knew, but seemed no worse for wear. Archimedes came to him immediately once the door was opened, hopping onto his hand and cooing happily. Euclid and Democritus followed soon after, nipping affectionately at his fingers as he handled the bag of seeds.

“ _Sanft, sanft...”_ he cautioned them, as they all scrambled for a place around the food bowls. Only Archimedes stayed with him when the food was out, climbing quickly up his arm to perch at his shoulder. Medic held up his palm, filled with a bit of seed, and smiled as his feathered companion pecked happily at the food.

“ _Merde,”_ said Spy thickly from the doorway.

Medic looked over and was surprised to see that Spy had not put his mask. His salt and pepper was messily slicked back with water and the circles under his eyes were much darker than usual. His pants were unfastened, hanging loose and open from his hips, and he had forgone both his shirt and his jacket. Instead, he had Medic's bedsheet wrapped sloppily about his shoulders. He looked tired and hungover and disheveled, and in that moment the only thing Medic wanted to do was drag him back into the bedroom and fuck him senseless.

With effort, he restrained himself.

“Drink that,” he ordered, turning away so Spy wouldn't see the sudden flush in his cheeks. “And sit down. I'll be with you in a moment.”

“Wash your hands first,” Spy grumbled, shuffling over to the table and lifting the glass with a shaky hand. “I already feel terrible. I don't need to catch something from one of your winged plaguebearers.”

Medic frowned as he nudged Archimedes onto his finger, gently placing him back inside the cage.

“They are not dirty, Spy. They're domesticated. They keep themselves quite clean. To be honest, I'd be worried about them catching something from _you.”_

Spy merely grunted. Medic watched him climb awkwardly onto the examination table, stepping on the sheet as he did so and nearly losing his balance. He kept a firm hold on his drink as he recovered, and sat hunched and still.

Medic washed his hands loudly and pulled on a pair of gloves before walking over to him.

“Let me see,” he said, peeling the sheet away from Spy's shoulders. Spy had also removed the thin undershirt he wore to bed the night before, leaving him bare-chested and shivering slightly. He turned obligingly when prompted, and Medic got a better look at the wound on his back.

It was definitely a burn. Second-degree and fresh, and very painful if the way Spy squirmed when he touched the edges of it was any indication. There were little black flecks of something embedded in the raw skin, some larger than others. Medic frowned and reached for a pot of salve that wasn't where he left it.

“Are you going to tell me how you got this?” he asked as he searched. Spy took a deep breath.

“I'd prefer not to, but I suspect I have no choice in the matter.”

“Not if you want me to heal you, you don't. Lean forward, _bitte.”_

Medic scooped a moderate amount of salve onto his fingers and pressed it lightly to Spy's damaged flesh. Spy hissed and recoiled.

“ _Mon Dieu,_ you have a gun that literally shoots health, and yet you never seem to use it,” he snapped, pulling the rumpled sheet tighter about himself. “Or am I simply a special patient? We've already established you like seeing in me in pain, but if we're going to play that game I would prefer to do it with our clothes entirely off.”

Medic wished he was wearing his glasses. He would have looked at Spy over their thin silver rims, and his quelling look would have been much more effective.

“This is an ointment,” he began slowly, as though speaking to a child, “to draw the splinters out of your skin before I fully heal the wound. Unless you would prefer them to remain embedded in your flesh? As we've established, you rather _like_ to be in pain. Shall I leave this, then? Let it scrape under your suit and get infected and leave an ugly scar that will never heal, just to remind you how much it hurt at the time? Or are you done whining like _ein Kind_ and going to let me help you?”

Abashed was an interesting expression to see on Spy's bare face. There was the barest hint of pink high in his cheeks, and an endearing wideness to his eyes. Medic stared at him, and did not move until Spy nodded jerkily.

The Frenchman didn't make a peep when Medic began to reapply the salve, smearing it on thick over the entirety of the burn. He let it sit for a few moments, drawing the heat and fragments out of the burn, before fetching a cool cloth and gently wiping it away. Spy's fingers curled white-knuckled around the edge of the table, but still he was silent. Medic stripped off his gloves and reached up to set the Medigun back into its bearings.

“Did you start the fire?” he asked quietly, flicking the switch on the machine's underbelly, satisfied with the way it hummed to life. Spy grimaced.

“Not... exactly.”

He took one look at Medic's face and clarified.

“ _I_ didn't start it, but I cannot deny that I _caused_ it.”

Medic angled the healing beam toward Spy's back, and watched the progress of the wound closing up.

“But you _were_ in the enemy base after hours, and you _were_ directly responsible for half of it burning to the ground?”

“...Yes.”

The deepest layer of skin was healing nicely, Medic observed.

“Explain.”

Spy sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The fresh skin stretched tight across his back, but showed no signs of pain.

“There are things you cannot tell me,” Spy began without looking at him. “By that logic, I assume there are some things I am not meant to tell you.”

Medic turned down the intensity of the Medigun beam, frowning.

“You were under orders.”

“Yes.”

“From the Administrator?”

“ _Oui.”_

Medic stood still for a moment, considering.

He'd spoken to Helen not three days ago. She'd made clear her interests in his work, and made clear exactly how much she knew about his personal life. But at no point had she told him of _her_ plans. He was unaware that she even _had_ any plans concerning the feud between RED and BLU, certainly not of such magnitude. Surely she would have told him.

“She ordered you to blow up the enemy base?” he asked incredulously. Spy snorted.

“ _Non,_ of course not. The fire was not part of the plan. The BLU Demoman is simply overzealous about his craft, apparently.”

“Then what _were_ you doing?”

Spy shrugged.

“My job.”

“Are you really not going to tell me?”

“Are you going to tell me your name?”

The question caught Medic off guard. Spy was looking at him now, eyes dark beneath thick lashes, his stare intense and much less tired than it had been minutes ago. Medic looked at him, mouth working soundlessly, and faltered.

It should have been such a simple thing. A word. A name. _His_ name. Such a short little sound, not even strange or uncommon by any stretch. No great secret in and of itself, and yet...

_Erik._

He couldn't say it. A simple name became so intimate when it was unknown, and the longer the silence stretched between them the wider Medic could feel the distance becoming. Only a name, he told himself. It's only a name. The name his mother called him as she smoothed his hair out of his eyes and read him to sleep. The name his friends - all of them dead now, long dead and half-forgotten - called to get his attention across the courtyard, jogging over with smiles and kind words. The name his wife called him, holding his hand as tightly as she could, her voice cracking with the strain of speaking. The name _she_ called him, only when he was in trouble. Only when he had done wrong, or endangered himself.

_Watch yourself, Erik._

_Watch yourself with_ him.

Medic closed his mouth and swallowed, and Spy blinked and looked away.

The Medigun had done its job. Clean, slightly pink but undamaged skin now covered the large portion of Spy's back, erasing any trace of the wound. Medic clicked off the healing beam and stepped back, allowing Spy to shrug the blanket back over his shoulders and stand up.

Without a word, he returned to Medic's bedroom and closed the door behind him.

Medic remained, in his robe and slippers, standing in the middle of his ruined infirmary, wondering if he had missed something.

When Spy reemerged, masked and fully dressed, he found the doctor sweeping up shards of broken glass. Medic felt incredibly under-dressed by comparison.

“Watch where you step,” he warned, as the other man edged further into the room. Spy looked around at the carnage instead of looking at him.

“It's a little early for Spring Cleaning, _Docteur,”_ he said drily. Medic straightened up.

“I was looking for _those,”_ he said, gesturing to the fragments of metal and plastic on his desk, held together by torn wiring. Spy stepped closer, squinting. He picked up a cracked circle of glass and turned it over in his hand.

“Cameras?” he asked, frowning. Medic nodded.

“She knows.”

Spy's head snapped up.

“She-?”

Medic nodded again, and Spy paled. He set the broken lens back where he'd found it.

“We'll be fine,” Medic said, more firmly than he intended. “So long as we remain discreet, and focused on our work. We have nothing to fear from her.”

“You sound very sure of that, _Docteur.”_

“I am. The Administrator has larger things to worry about than what we do behind closed doors.”

“And the rest of the team?” Spy asked, looking at him properly now. “Should our discretion fail and the manner of our relationship become known, what then?”

Medic hesitated.

_Then you will be killed._

The sad and terrible truth was that Spy was disposable, and he was not. The Administrator could easily – more easily than he cared to think – find another man willing to don a mask and follower her orders to the letter, and perhaps not ask so many questions as the man in front of him did. And Spy would be gone. Taken from him without warning or goodbyes. A footnote in a list of expenditures.

He couldn't allow that to happen.

“We'll just have to be careful,” he said, taking a measured step forward. Spy didn't retreat. “After all, they might start to question my partiality.”

There was less than a foot of space between them now. He closed it, slowly, taking Spy's gloved hand in his own. He kept his grip light. Spy's fingers twitched, and Medic was close enough to hear his throat work as he swallowed.

“We don't want them thinking I show you any preferential treatment,” he said, and leaned forward to press their lips together.

It was a tender kiss. More tender than he had planned it to be. Simple and soft, with no tongue or teeth. The only roughness was that of their unshaven chins scraping together. Spy's eyes fell shut, and Medic felt the soft brush of lashes on his cheek. When he pulled away, Spy's fingers tightened around his own.

“I think I like your preferential treatment,” he hummed, slowly opening his eyes. There was a small smile playing around his mouth, and Medic resisted the urge to kiss him again.

“I should hope so. You've been receiving it for long enough.” He glanced at the clock above the doorway; it was almost quarter past seven. “We're going to miss breakfast. Engineer will eat all of the bacon if we don't hurry.”

“Shall we go together?” Spy asked, raising an eyebrows and their joined hands. “Walk in side by side, hand in hand? How is that for discretion?”

Medic smirked and stepped back.

“You go ahead. I still need to dress and such. Save me a piece of toast.”

“I'll save you a plate,” Spy said, taking a moment to straighten his suit before heading toward the door. Medic stopped him when his hand was on the handle.

“Spy?”

The masked man looked at him expectantly, and Medic suddenly felt very foolish.

“Thank you,” he said, before the moment passed. “For- for staying with me, in the night. I... appreciate it.”

Spy blinked, and for a moment Medic thought he might walk back over to him.

“It was no chore,” he said simply, opening the door. Medic watched him step out into the hall, and watched the door swing shut behind him.

He allowed himself only a moment to breathe, and to think, before returning to his room to dress.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha so i might have accidentally forgotten about the birds until like right now, so please accept my meager attempt to include them thanks


	20. Expectations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS

The briefcase arrived exactly one week ago.

It was black and new looking, with a shiny silver clasp and an impressive six-digit combination lock. It had arrived with the rest of the month's shipment of rations and supplies, delivered by rail up the steep slopes of the mountain. Engineer had nearly thrown out his back trying to lift it out of the back of the carriage. It hit the ground with a dull, metallic thud and lay there until it was picked up.

By Medic.

Medic, whose stride could only be considered hurried by those who knew him well, crossed the platform, stooped, and gripped the case by the handle. He lifted it without effort, carrying it easily with one hand, and took it inside.

Spy had not seen it since.

Over the course of the month, there were certain things that Spy had become accustomed to. Certain things he had come to take for granted without realising.

He did not sleep in his own bed anymore. Not the one in his designated quarters, nor the one in the secluded little room that he had set aside for himself shortly after their arrival to this dismal little base. A precedent had been set. And every night, he would venture down to the med bay. He would enter with a soft knock, and undress in the dark, and crawl under the cold sheets to press himself against the warm body that was already tucked between them.

Sometimes they would fuck, but not always.

Sometimes Medic would hold his arms over his head, or twisted behind his back, and fuck him into the mattress until they were both boneless and breathless and hoarse. Spy relished those nights. He relished the tightness in his chest that came from having his air carefully controlled and restricted. He relished the sticky, sweaty messes they both became by the end of the ordeal, chests heaving, too hot and too close and too unwilling to move away from each other into more comfortable sleeping positions. He relished shaving in the morning, wincing as he scraped his razor over the fresh bite marks on his neck and jaw. Hiding the bruises became a game. The ones on his wrists and neck were easily covered with his suit, or his gloves and mask. The split in his lip, where he'd bitten it hard enough to bleed to stop himself from screaming too loudly, was harder to hide. In truth, he didn't want to. He wore it as a challenge, daring any of his teammates to wonder aloud how he had come by it. Engineer did a double take before simply shaking his head. Scout, the pathetic virgin that he was, assumed he had gotten into a fight. Sniper's gaze lingered over his third cup of coffee, eyes already hidden behind tinted glasses. He wanted to say something. He never did.

But their encounters didn't always end in bruises and scratchy voices. Some nights he would trail his fingers softly along the doctor's chest and be rewarded with a low hum from the man's throat. Some nights, when the sky was dark enough or the snow was high enough that no light penetrated the thick curtains, they would hold each other. Slow and gentle, quiet and easy and _comfortable._

Spy was grateful for the darkness in those times. No doubt he would be doing something embarrassing with his face.

But no absence of light could mask the words he murmured into Medic's skin, or hide the way the doctor's arms tightened around him as they sighed together and drifted off to sleep.

And still, other nights, they would not touch each other at all.

Some nights Medic didn't even bother coming to bed.

Spy would find the room empty and cold with no sign of the other man. A light was left on. For his sake or to settle the dreadful birds, he didn't know. He didn't want to ask. But even if the bed was far too large with only him in it, he would still climb in and curl up, pulling the heavy blankets tightly around himself and falling into a fitful sleep.

In the morning, every morning that he slept alone, he would find a steaming cup of coffee waiting for him on the nightstand.

That sort of made up for it.

The time with Medic over this month had raised his expectations. It had given him standards. The coffee, for instance, was something he had become accustomed to. Just as he'd gotten used to sitting next to the doctor at mealtimes and finding their knees pressed together under the table. Just as he gotten used to falling into step in the hallway, or having his cries for assistance quickly answered on the battlefield. He'd gotten used to being crowded in the shower, on account of the stall only being meant to accommodate one body at a time. He'd gotten used to having someone else straighten his tie in the morning, or pull it loose at the end of a bad fight. He'd gotten used to knowing that at the end of the day, no matter how bad that day was, that he would not be alone in the night.

This week had robbed him of his new found comforts.

And it was all the briefcase's fault.

Spy didn't know what was in the briefcase. He didn't know who had sent it, or why it was locked so elaborately.

But he knew that Medic had taken it, and it had taken him in turn.

Spy hated the briefcase.

It and the doctor had all but vanished from the base. Medic appeared at the beginning of a match, rushing out minutes before the starting bell, and did his job to an acceptable degree. And when the fighting was done he disappeared without a word. Well he didn't  _vanish._ Spy knew where he was. He was down in the basement, locked in The Room That Didn't Exist that Spy wasn't supposed to know about. With the briefcase.

It would be easy enough to waltz down there and simply knock. Easy, except that it was the only thing that Medic had ever expressly forbidden him to do. That didn't make it any less tempting.

Spy felt ridiculous. Restless. He felt needy. A grown man, pouting and pining over another grown man for not paying him the attention he thought he deserved.

His eyes burned holes into the doctor's back as he ran ahead at the beginning of the day's battle. Spy wouldn't exactly call it  _stalking_ – hovering would be kinder – the way he followed Medic around the field, hoping to catch him alone and have a moment to speak. No such moment ever came. Or when it did, Medic ruined it by dashing back into the fray. But not before Spy could see the pallor of his skin, the hollowness of his cheeks, or the dark circles under his eyes, or the way he panted if he ran too fast.

So he wasn't sleeping. He probably wasn't eating either, and that irked Spy more than waking up and reaching out for a man or a coffee that wasn't there. Never mind not taking care of  _him_ , Medic wasn't taking care of  _himself._

All because of a fucking  _briefcase._

_Merde._

* * *

 

Spy was in no mood for business when the little device built into his cigarette case beeped at him from inside his pocket. He flipped it open irritably. The green light was flashing. He snapped it closed with just as much irritation and turned on his heel, heading back in the direction he had just come from. No one said anything to him as he walked back into the common room, despite having just walked out of it, and left through the opposite door. Pyro was the only one who even raised their head. Spy repressed a shudder until he was out in the hallway.

His steps were quick and measured as he walked to the control room.

It had been a bad day.

He woke up cold and alone. The birds that Medic insisted on keeping were restless in their cage, having been locked up all night. He noticed their little food trays were empty and, despite his better judgment, opened the door to feed them.

Three of the beasts flew out immediately and spent several harrowing minutes cooing wildly and flapping around the ceiling above his head.

Spy didn't bother trying to get them back in the cage. He poured too much food and refilled the water dishes from the tap, and lit a cigarette in the operating theatre just because he was feeling spiteful. Nothing exploded. But without Medic there to chastise him, it was hardly a victory.

The BLU Heavy seemed to be holding a grudge against him, of all people. Spy learned the hard way that having one's head crushed by a huge, meaty hand was a terrifying, painful, and wholly unpleasant way to go.

Dear Demo had taken it upon himself to hoard every last bottle of alcohol on the base, including the private stores that Spy had been able to hide from him until then.

Finding the last of his good brandy missing had been the straw that broke the camel's back.

And now the Administrator wanted to talk to him.

He couldn't imagine what about.

The heavy door to the control room opened soundlessly, closing just as soundlessly when he leaned back against it. He crossed to the leather chair and sat heavily, sighing as he looked for the flashing light that would connect him to the Administrator's direct line.

There wasn't one.

The control panel was dark. Not a single button, switch, or lever was lit up or showing any signs of activity. Spy frowned and pulled his cigarette case back out of his pocket.

The green light flashed cheerfully at him.

The device was clearly defective. And now he would have to walk through the common room,  _again,_ and try to pretend like there was nothing out of the ordinary about his behavior.

_Merde._

Behind him, a teleporter hummed to life.

Spy turned slowly in his chair, fingers poised to dart for the blade concealed in the breast pocket of his jacket. There was not supposed to be a teleporter in this room. There had never been a teleporter in this room, or in any of the control rooms he had ever visited.

And never, in his entire career, had he seen a teleporter that was  _purple._

He looked down at the little light in his hand, still flashing persistently, then back at the odd teleporter on the floor. Very slowly, he got to his feet and crossed the room.

He stepped on to the teleporter.

 

When he finally rematerialized into the world, it felt as though hours had passed.

Spy's stomach heaved as he staggered off of the platform, clinging to the wall for support. He bent double and tasted bile in the back of his throat. It took considerable effort to swallow it back down.

The teleportation process had felt... long. Much longer than usual. He had always assumed the devices had some of limit on range, but if that wasn't so then there was no telling how far he had traveled. Or what was waiting for him on this end.

He didn't recognise his surroundings. He'd arrived in a small, bright room with grey walls and a slightly darker grey carpet. There was nothing in the room except the teleporter and himself. There was single door directly across from him, and he watched with narrowed eyes as the handle began to turn.

It opened outward, and Miss Pauling stood on the other side of it.

“Oh, good,” she said at the sight of him. “You're early.”

Spy straightened up quickly, still feeling sick, and cleared his throat.

“Am I?'

She smiled politely.

“We weren't sure if you'd trust the new technology or not. Glad to see you made in here in one piece, Spy. Now, if you could just place all your weapons in here...”

She fiddled with the case tucked under her arm, flipping it open and holding it out. Spy sighed.

“Standard policy?” he asked, carefully pulling his revolver out of his pocket. She nodded apologetically as he unloaded the weapon, placing it and the bullets into the case she offered. Next he handed over his knife, then stood to attention. She remained as she was.

“All of them, Spy,” she said firmly.

Several minutes later, when he was completely disarmed, Miss Pauling closed the case and latched it, tucking it carefully under her arm again and led him out into the hall.

It was a very long hallway. Long and narrow and brightly light, and very  _grey._ The walls and floors were the same colours all the way down. Fluorescent lights were evenly placed along the ceiling, maintaining a cold, constant glow all the way down. There were other doors, identical to the one he had just been lead out of. There were no numbers, or any other identifying features to separate them from one another that he could see.

Miss Pauling walked at a brisk but unhurried pace ahead of him. She was a short, petite woman with thick corrective lenses and a rather mousy demeanor. He new far better than to underestimate her based on appearance alone, however. She'd replaced him after all, as the right hand of the Administrator, and at a very young age.

And by all accounts, she did a much better job of it than he ever had.

“I realise this all may seem very unusual to you,” she said, after they had been walking for a few minutes. The hallway showed no signs of ending. “However, I hope you will understand the necessity of sticking to protocol. These are very sensitive circumstances.”

“Am I going to be killed?” Spy asked, as calmly as he could. Miss Pauling shot him a look over her shoulder than was both pitying and amused.

“Of course not, Spy. You've been with the company long enough, and served loyally enough, to warrant some warning if that were the case. Also we wouldn't have brought you all the way here just to be disposed of. Your life is in no danger. Today.”

He believed her.

“There are, however, some rules,” she continued, slowing slightly so that he could catch up. “Don't speak unless spoken to, don't fidget, don't slouch, don't touch anything-”

“I didn't realise I was attending a charm school.”

“-don't _snap,_ for the love of god don't smoke, don't move from where you're told to stand, don't turn your back, don't interrupt or correct him-”

“ _Him?_ Just who am I being taken to see?”

“-and don't ask questions.”

She stopped abruptly in front of one of the identical doors and pressed her palm flat to a seemingly innocuous bit of wall beside it. There was a brief flash of light, a series of beeps, and the door slid open. She stepped inside, and Spy followed her.

The room was enormous.

Looking around, he realised just how many of the doors they had passed must have been fake for this room to exist. The ceiling was high above, lost in the darkness. The wall in front of them was covered in strange reflective panels of some sort. It took him a moment to realise that they were television screens. All of them were switched off, and the largest one in the very center was taller than he was. A long, lit walkway led into the middle of the room, to a low platform with a high backed leather chair and-

-and a control panel.

Spy's steps faltered.

This was it. The control room.  _The_ Control Room.

This was the very heart of the company. Where every decision was made, every action was monitored, every order was given. This was where their lives were controlled from. This was everything happened.

And he was standing in it, suddenly feeling very small.

“Don't just stand there,” said a rough voice that he had come to know all too well. The leather chair spun slowly, revealing, in all her high definition glory, the Administrator. “Come into the light where I can get a look at you.”

Spy swallowed. He flashed a quick glance to Miss Pauling, who nodded slightly, and took several steps forward. He put all his training to use to hide how nervous he suddenly felt.

The Administrator had a lit cigarette held graceful between two bony fingers. She took a long drag and gave him a once over.

“You look thinner on camera,” she said, exhaling smoke through her nose. “We'll have to get them adjusted.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he said, resisting the urge to put a hand on his stomach. He _had_ been eating better, actually. Hm. She raised an eyebrow.

“Do you know why you're here?”

“Miss Pauling has assured me I'm not going to be killed today, though I am starting to doubt her sincerity.”

The Administrator scoffed.

“Of course I'm not going to kill you, you fool. You remain astoundingly useful, even if you have gone a bit _soft.”_ The way she said it made it plain she wasn't speaking about his middle. “Miss Pauling informs me that happens to the best of us, but I'm not so sure. We'll see how you fare in the later years. For now, you many keep your life. No. You're here for altogether more serious reasons. I see you're in uniform. Good. Unfortunate, but good. Miss Pauling, get the line set up. And you, behave yourself, or I may have to change my mind about your usefulness. You wouldn't even be here at all if I had anything to say about it.”

She stubbed her cigarette out into an overflowing ash tray and turned back around.

Spy looked to Miss Pauling, who was punching something into a curious little tablet in her hands, and then he wasn't looking at anything because the whole world went white.

“Is this thing working? Hello? Is this- how do I know if the blasted thing is on or not?”

Spy cautiously opened his eyes.

He squinted against the bright light as his eyes adjusted, realising that the light had come from the largest of the television screens, which was now lit up and broadcasting.

Spy found himself staring into the giant, withered face of Blutarch Mann.

“We hear you, Mr. Mann,” the Administrator said calmly. “The device is working.”

“What's that? Yes, yes, I see you now. Good. Marcie, turn the sound up, tell them I can hear them.”

A pair of manicured hands appeared briefly on the screen, followed by a loud clicking. Mr. Mann cleared his throat. The volume had definitely improved.

Spy didn't dare look away. He wanted to glance at Miss Pauling, to see if this was really real, really happening. If he was really standing here, dwarfed by the decrepit face of his enemy's employer. Not that that was a particularly important detail. The distinctions of RED and BLU, for all the bloodshed between them, were rivals in name only. They served the same company and the same cause, whether they knew it or not. But the implications of speaking directly to the head of the opposing team...

“Is everything in order, Mr. Mann?” the Administrator asked, slightly louder than before. Blutarch Mann's face purpled.

“No, everything is _not_ in order, as you damn well know!” he boomed, and the floor beneath Spy's feet vibrated with the sound of it. “Just what sort of a racket do you think you're running here, hm?”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Mr. Mann,” the Administrator said drily. “I assure you, everything is being taken care of to your specifications-”

“You lied, Elizabeth!” he shouted, and Spy's ears rang. “I gave you my orders and you said you followed them, I saw the papers and everything but you _lied._ You know where he is, don't you? You've known all along, you boiled hag.”

If the Administrator took offense, she did not show it. Nor did she correct his mistake about her name.

“I don't know who you're referring to, Mr. Mann,” she said evenly. Blutarch Mann narrowed his watery, bloodshot eyes.

“The _doctor,_ Elizabeth. I'm talking about the _doctor.”_

Spy's blood ran cold.

He shot a look to Miss Pauling. She was staring straight forward, eyes fixed on the screen, her face impassive. But he saw the tightness of her jaw, and the way her fingers were curled in a white knuckled grip around the edges of the case.

The Administrator paused for a carefully measured silence.

“An unfortunate oversight, Mr. Mann.”

Blutarch Mann thumped one skeletal hand on the arm of his wheelchair. The sound reverberated deafeningly through the control room.

“I knew it. I _knew_ it, here's there! He thought he could steal from me and get away but oh, no, we've got him! _I've_ got him! You there,” Mann said, and Spy's eyes snapped back to the screen. The enormous eyes were staring straight at him. “I see you there, I see what uniform you're wearing. I can still see colours, you know. You work for my brother, don't you? That no good rat, Redmond. Speak up!”

“Yes, sir,” Spy said and found his mouth had gone very dry. The Administrator turned her chair just enough to see him out of corner of her eye.

“Good, that's good. A man on the inside. Elizabeth tells me you're useful. Do you know who we're talking about, boy? That crazy German bastard, does he work with you for Redmond?”

Spy risked a glance at the Administrator. Being called “boy” had thrown him. Everything about this situation was throwing him. She dipped her chin infinitesimally; a nod.

“Yes, sir,” he repeated. The grin he received, a wide, slack mouth stretched across polished dentures and mottled gums, was absolutely chilling.

“ _Good.”_ He turned back to the Administrator. “Does Redmond have any idea what he's got? That numbskull probably doesn't even know what to look for! How else could that snake get right in his company without so much as a by your leave. His people aren't trained properly, not like mine. Incompetent, the lot of them. I've been chasing that kraut for sixty years, and he slithers in right under their nose.”

Spy blinked.

_Sixty years?_

Blutarch Mann's eyes swiveled back to him and narrowed.

“Do you know who he is? You work with him, you must know. He's a _thief,_ that's what he is. He _stole_ from me, from _my_ company. I gave him a job out of the goodness of my heart, back when he just some back-alley surgeon fresh off the boat, paid him a reasonably low sum for all his hard work, and how does he repay me? By taking my money! Doing his own work, using _my_ people and _my_ equipment for his crazy science business! He signed a contract! Everything he and that redneck learned in their years of service was supposed to be handed over to _me,_ but when they retired those bastards up and ran and took their work with them! Well, I got even with one of them. I chased that hick to his grave and got back what he owed me, but _him...”_

Mann leaned forward as much as he could, larger than life and filling the screen with his enormous, liver-spotted forehead.

“He's been a thorn in my side for far, far too long. And the time has come to _rip it out.”_

In the ringing silence that followed this declaration, Spy could hear Miss Pauling let out a slow, even breath. His own heart was hammering wildly in his chest. Several nightmares felt on the verge of coming true at any moment and here was, unarmed, silent, caught in a den of vipers.

Mr. Mann was still looking at him. Still staring with those awful, wet little eyes. He wet his lips with a pink, cracked tongue.

“You're going to get it for me,” he said quietly. “Whatever he took, whatever he _stole._ It's legally mine and I want it back, do you understand? And I don't care what colours you wear or what papers you signed for my brother, you work for _me_ now. Elizabeth will draw up the papers.”

“Yes, Mr. Mann,” the Administrator said, and Spy could see the tic in her jaw from where he stood. “I will take care of everything.”

“Good. Excellent. And you, you're going to do your part for the company, aren't you, boy?”

Spy flinched visibly.

_Boy_ was a name he hoped never to be called again his life. Not in that tone, not by old men in power, large and looming over him. He had escaped that life. The reminder of it made him sick to his stomach.

“Yes, sir,” he said, tasting bile on his tongue that had nothing to do with vertigo. He cleared his throat. “Though, if I may ask...?”

“Hm? What is it, speak up!”

“What exactly am I meant to be looking for?”

Blutarch Mann sat back and threw in his arms in the air.

“Anything! Anything that looks like he shouldn't have it! I'm not some limp-wristed prissy boy scientist, I don't know the mechanics of it and I don't have to. I pay people to know that for me. It could be a machine, or some sort of medical procedure. That quack's still calling himself a doctor, isn't he? I just want to know how he's doing it.”

“Doing what?”

Beside him, Miss Pauling gave a funny little jerk of her head. _Don't ask questions_ was a rule, and he was breaking it.

“ _Living!”_ Mann shouted, shaking the very foundations of the room. “I've got seven teams of scientists working around the clock to keep me alive, a preserved vegetable in this blasted chair, and what's he doing? He's out there, running around, with his hair and his _muscles,_ young and virile as he ever was! And it's not fair! It isn't fair, I tell you! It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not f-”

Something behind Mr. Mann's chair started beeping frantically. He gulped down a deep breath as the same manicured hands from before handed him a little sippy cup of something. He drank deeply before waving it away. Moisture clung to his lips. His sagging jowls shook as he turned back to the camera.

“I don't care what it is. I don't care how it works or what the cost it, but I want it delivered to my front door before the next financial quarter. And you're getting to get it for me. You get me that technology and I'll see you taken care of for the rest of your life. Money, land, women, whatever you want. With some restrictions of course, but Elizabeth will put that in the contract. It doesn't matter. I want what's mine before my idiot brother pulls his head out of his ass and catches wise. I'm going to outlive him after all. Then he'll see. That'll show him. Marcie, tell me how to turn this thing off. I'm done talking for the day, I believe.”

There was flurry of motion, and the large screen went black.

Spy stood perfectly still, focusing on his breathing, and tried to understand exactly what sort of mess he'd been dragged into.

“René,” the Administrator said, and the use of his name startled him back out of his thoughts. “Did you hear everything that Mr. Mann said?”

Spy swallowed.

“Yes, I heard him.”

She lit a cigarette and brought it to her lips with surprising poise.

“Good. Because you're not going to do a goddamn thing that that man just told you.”

Spy gaped.

“I'm sorry?'

“Disregard those orders. Forget you heard them. There will be no new contract, no paperwork, no change of management. Nothing. You work for me, remember? And you'll be following _my_ orders, correct?”

“Y-yes, ma'am. Of course.”

“Good. Listen carefully and don't make me repeat myself. These are your new orders.”

She turned in her chair, facing him completely. Perhaps it was simply the after images from the bright screen, but he could have sworn she looked pale. She sucked the cigarette almost down to the filter, exhaling as she spoke. The effect both frightening and impressive. Her words, by contrast, were anticlimactic.

“Keep him safe.”

Spy blinked.

“Keep him-?”

“Your Medic,” she said firmly. “As of right now, he is officially under your protection. Him, his work, even those little birds he seems so terribly fond of. They are your responsibility. Mann is smarter than he looks, or rather the people he _employs_ are smarter than he looks. They won't simply trust your word for it. They'll send others to keep an eye on you or to take over if you don't appear to be getting results. And I don't know how Blutarch found him but he did, and that means Redmond won't be far behind. I'll do my part and falsify the reports for you. But it is imperative that you make the Medic's safety your priority, on and off the field. He considers you a friend, does he not?”

_More than that, I hope,_ Spy thought, but didn't say. The Administrator was well aware of the nature of their relationship and he didn't take her for a squeamish woman. This careful language was for Miss Pauling's benefit. Interesting. He nodded curtly.

“Good. Use that advantage and stay close to him. Do _not_ , under any circumstances, reveal to him that this meeting took place. He can't know that he'd been found out.”

“Why?” Spy asked, and was surprised by how weak his voice sounded. “He would be better prepared if he knew, more likely to-”

“He will run,” she said flatly. “He's run before, with far less provocation, and he won't hesitate to pack up and leave given half the chance. I'm not going to lose him again. He mustn't know.”

Spy closed his mouth. There were so many questions swirling around his head that he had no idea which of them might slip out. This was a delicate, confusing situation. And he had his orders. He nodded.

“I understand.”

The Administrator narrowed her eyes. There was no malevolence there, for once.

“Good. Then you're dismissed. Miss Pauling will see you out.”

And with that she turned her chair around, and the meeting was over.

Spy turned numbly to the woman by his side. Her eyes were wide and there was a little crease between her brows, but she flashed him a tight-lipped smile. He returned it automatically, without feeling, and allowed himself to be lead back out of the control room.

The grey hallway seemed even longer going back.

His footsteps fell into time with Miss Pauling's as they walked, though he remained a respectful distance behind her. His head was spinning.

Medic was obviously keeping more from him that he first suspected. To have any ties at all to either of the Mann Brothers was shocking enough. But to have stolen from one of them, to have gone on the run... for _sixty years?_ How was that possible? The Manns had their life-extending machines, Spy knew that much from his days working directly under the Administrator, in the position that Miss Pauling now filled. He also knew that those machines were piles of mechanically genius junk that were coming apart at the seams. It was a miracle they were still functioning at all. But it didn't explain Blutarch's fury about Medic “living.” What did that even mean? Just how old was Medic, exactly?

And if the Administrator was right, as she often was, then Spy wouldn't be the only person brought in to deal with this. Medic was in danger, and he was not allowed to know about the danger.

Spy had never taken Medic as the sort of man to run from confrontation. Indeed, he tended to meet a challenge with relish, light reflecting equally off his too-white, too-sharp teeth, split into a manic grin, and the teeth of the bone saw hefted menacingly in his hand. And in those sorts of fights, the doctor almost always came out on top.

If whatever he was facing was bad enough for him to turn tail and flee, then Spy was certain he didn't want him to have to face it at all.

“Here,” Miss Pauling said quietly, stopping in front of a door that looked exactly like all the rest. She turned the handle and stepped aside for him to pass inside. The room was empty, except for a single active teleporter sitting on the floor. He couldn't even be sure that it was the same room he'd arrived in.

“Your effects,” she said, holding out and opened the case he'd deposited his weapons in on arrival. He quietly armed himself again, putting everything in it's proper place. An odd silence fell between them when he was done. She looked on the verge of saying something.

“Take care of yourself,” was what she said instead. Spy simply nodded. He didn't trust his voice.

Without another word, he stepped back onto the purple teleporter and took a deep breath, and met Miss Pauling's eyes just before vanishing.

 

* * *

 

As soon as the door was closed, the Administrator let out a breath and leaned back in her chair.

Her back was killing her. Her head was killing her now, too, from all that decrepit idiot's yelling. She would have to bring in the technicians to make sure nothing important had rattled loose.

Behind her, she heard the tell-tale hush of a cloak deactivating.

“Did you get all of that?” she asked, the calloused joint of her thumb scraping down the wheel of a well-worn golden lighter. The man cleared his throat behind her.

“Yes, ma'am. Every word.”

She took a deep drag from her cigarette – they never seemed to last as long as they used to anymore – and turned back around. The BLU Spy wasn't as tall as his RED counterpart, or as handsome, if she was to be honest. He was younger and faster, and willing to do what was necessary to get the job done. That was why she hired him, after all.

“You understand what your orders are?”

“I believe so,” he said. He had an odd accent as well. All Spies did. Never could pin them to a specific place, no matter where they said they were from. It didn't matter. Details.

“Repeat them to me.”

“The RED Spy is to protect the Medic. My job is to make this difficult. To get at the doctor and his information myself, and report back to Mr. Mann.”

The Administrator exhaled slowly, letting the smoke hang in the air in front of her.

“No.”

That drew him up short.

“...No?” he repeated after a brief hesitation that didn't go unnoticed. “Then, forgive me, I'm afraid I do not understand my orders after all.”

“Your orders are exactly the same as the RED Spy's.”

She observed his face as that information settled in his little head. He was a blonde under that mask, though he'd taken careful pains to disguise that. He dyed his eyebrows. She watch them pinch together and form a little line between his eyes.

“The Medic is not to be harmed,” she continued, flicking ash into the crowded little tray Miss Pauling had gotten her for Smissmas. Foolish girl. Foolish, thoughtful girl. “He is not to be harassed, or stalked, or investigated. His work is to remain undisturbed. No meddling whatsoever. Is that clear?”

He hesitated again. The Administrator narrowed her eyes.

“I- Yes, ma'am. I understand. But... What about Mr. Mann?”

“You don't work for Mr. Mann,” she snapped, and was pleased when he jumped. “You work for me, and you'll be doing what _I_ tell you. I've given you your orders, I assume you now understand your assignment, yes? I'll be awaiting your reports on the matter.”

He took it as a dismissal, which it was. The Spy gave a curt little bow – not nearly as low as she would have liked – before backing respectfully out of the room. She didn't turn around until the door had closed all the way.

She'd have to keep an eye on that one.

 


	21. The Truth Will Out

Ten. He had asked for ten, and she'd given him twelve.

Medic's hands were shaking. From excitement and exhaustion, and from all of the caffeine he'd consumed in the last forty-eight hours. It had been six days since he last slept and three days since he so much as napped. The bitter coffee taste was permanently stained into his mouth, stuck on his tongue and the backs of his teeth. By this point, it was all that was keeping him going.

It was _working._

He'd been concerned about adjusting the dosage, along with tweaking the existing formula. He'd worried that the heat and pressure required to keep the Australium at the required temperature would cause a power outage and leave all his work in suspended animation. He feared the whole thing might blow up in his face. His shaking hands were certainly doing him no favours. But, miraculously, it was working better than he ever could have dreamed.

It wouldn't be long now. Not long at all.

The last couple weeks had taken a toll on him. The additional dosage had kept him going for longer than usual, but now that it was wearing off he was feeling the effects all the more acutely.

Fighting was getting hard. Running, even at a simple jog behind Heavy, was almost too much of an ordeal for him to manage. But he supposed he should relish these weaknesses while they lasted. Soon, they may not matter at all.

For now, however, he was very much in need of an aspirin.

Getting from the basement lab to his office all the way on the other side of the base, in the middle of the night, without running into anyone, was not as easy as it used to be. Patrols had been doubled since the fire. The BLUs were sure to hold a grudge, and the Engineer's motion-activated alarms had gone off more than once in the past few weeks. Revenge – although no _official_ blame had been placed – was not out of the realm of possibility. Medic wasn't worried. The patrols were a necessary precaution, if an annoying one. Soldier was much easier to slip past than Pyro. So far he'd been caught crossing the base only once, by the Demoman of all people. It wouldn't happen again. Certainly not tonight. He was far too tired for it.

Medic looked regretfully at the closed door to his bedroom as he entered the office, careful to keep his footsteps light. He didn't know if Spy was in there. They had shared a bed every night for nearly a month now, but the past week had been hectic enough to shake up their tentative arrangement. Whether or not Spy went to his bed knowing no one else would be there...

Medic grimaced and refocused his attention. Aspirin. Ibuprofen. Tylenol. Anything to dull his headache. That was why he was here.

He kept most of the painkillers, even the milder ones, out of the obvious medical cabinet set next to the sink. It discouraged his teammates from trying to hide their injuries from him. But now, trying to remember exactly where he had hidden them, Medic was beginning to rethink that strategy.

He sat heavily behind his desk and started pulling open drawers. One of them rattled promisingly, but he couldn't risk turning on a light to have a proper look inside. He leaned over, face almost level with the surface of his desk, and started to feel around inside.

That was when he noticed the photograph.

Medic paused in his rummaging, staring at the familiar picture sitting at eye level. A old framed photo, yellowed with age, the loving words that had once been scrawled across the corner obliterated by an unfortunate water stain. It was not where he'd left it. The last time he'd seen it was when he was unpacking, and tucked it safely into the bottom drawer of his desk. He frowned as he straightened up and picked it up. Why was this here? Why would someone move the picture of him and his-

“I've been reading.”

Medic very nearly fell out of his chair.

Reclining in one of the recovery cots, shrouded in shadow, he could just make out Spy's lean form. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. Medic pressed a hand to his chest in mock arrest.

“You startled me,” he said, carefully placing the framed picture face down on the desk. “What are you doing sitting in the dark like this? I thought you were asleep.”

“I was waiting up for you,” Spy replied, and his face was illuminated suddenly by the flickering flame of his lighter. He held it up to the cigarette already perched between his lips. “Like I do every night.”

There was a bite to his voice that Medic didn't miss. He swallowed.

“I've asked you not to smoke in here, Spy.”

Spy took a deep drag and exhaled a cloud of grey smoke slowly, deliberately, in Medic's direction. He clicked the lighter closed.

“I've been reading,” he said again, and Medic heard the shuffling of paper as he shifted. Spy stood, passing through a shaft of moonlight as he moved across the room. Medic could see a stack of something tucked under his arm, but didn't realise what they were until they were dropped heavily in front of him, covering the photograph, falling into a messy heap on his desk.

Files. They were files.

Spy clicked on his reading lamp. It didn't take long for Medic's eyes to adjust. He stared at the files, and sat very still.

“Where did you get these?” he asked quietly. Some of the folders were ragged at the edges from years of being shoved in and out of drawers. There were stains, coffee and blood, on some of them, smudged inky fingerprints left sloppily on the outer covers. They varied in thickness. The largest – stained with motor oil, with a faded rubber stamp in the upper right corner – was nearly two inches thick and contained an alarming number of paperclips. The thinnest rested on top, stamped in fresh, crisp ink, looking too shiny and new to fit in with the rest. He knew them all. He knew what was in them. They were his, after all.

“You've been very busy, _Docteur,”_ Spy said, ignoring his question. “During all these years.”

Medic's heart was hammering as the Frenchman shuffled the files, laying them out to cover more of the desk, choosing one – more recent, with a faint coffee ring on the back – and flipping it open. Medic's own picture stared back up at him, upside down, in the upper right corner. He didn't look at it.

“I had read this one before,” Spy hummed, inhaling another deep cloud of smoke, breathing out through his nose. “Months ago. It was given to me, of course. As you well know. I read it several times, cover to cover. And this one, as well.”

He picked another file off the desk, slightly older, more worn around the edges. He flipped through it briefly, his face carefully neutral and expressionless.

“What are you doing, Spy?” Medic asked, softly. The headache he had come here to treat was only growing stronger, and the bitter scent of smoke and ash was not helping. This was not the time.

“Both of these files are false,” Spy continued, ignoring him once again, but Medic didn't miss the quaver in his voice. “I assume all of these are false. Every word of them. The names are my favourite part, naturally. You certainly have a flair for the dramatic, don't you, Dr. Humboldt? Or is it Rogge? Kramer? Fleischer is my personal favourite, I have to say. _Butcher._ Fitting, once the pieces start to come together.”

Medic closed his eyes. This was the wrong thing to do.

Spy slammed the files down in front of him, making him jump. The Frenchman was leaning over him now, a terrible expression on his face, all pretense of indifference abandoned. He ground his cigarette out on the corner of the desk.

“You have lied to me,” he said, the tremble in his tone becoming more pronounced. “Right from the start, you have been lying. I knew it. I knew the files were false, I knew that information was being kept from me. By you. By the Administrator. I _knew,_ and yet I didn't push to learn the truth for myself. I didn't want to endanger myself, or my position, or risk jeopardizing whatever it is we've been doing these past months. Do you know that I actually came to trust you? And all of it has been a lie. I cannot trust anything that I have read. I cannot trust anything you have said to me. I cannot trust you. And to think I believed-”

He closed his mouth. Medic stared up at him dispassionately.

He knew what was in those files. He'd crafted most of them himself, dictated if not handwritten. He knew what Spy had found – what Spy had _thought_ he had found – and now the only question left was what he intended to do about it. And what Medic himself would do, in turn.

“You don't understand,” he murmured, and Spy let out a bark of laughter.

“What don't I understand? That you were a _war criminal?_ I knew of your military history, I knew where you were doing the war, but _this-”_

He grabbed the oldest, thickest file and hurled it open.

Photographs spilled across the desk. Photos, diagrams, charts, reports. Medic didn't look at them. He didn't need to. He shook his head sadly.

“So you believe it?” he asked, against his better judgment. The fatigue was affecting him. The pain in his head had settled into a dull roar, and the way Spy towered over him, fury and disgust etched into every line of his face, a face that Medic had seen laid bare and undone times beyond counting was only making it worse. It hurt more than he thought it would. “That is what you think of me?”

“How can I not believe it!” Spy shouted. “You're still lying! All of this, and you're still trying to lie to me!”

“If you want me to explain-”

“You cannot explain this,” he said flatly. “There is no excuse.”

Medic let his head fall forward.

He should have known. Should have guessed that Spy would not let it go. That he would dig, and dig until he found what he thought he was looking for.

And Medic could not correct him.

_Why not?_ Said a little voice in the back of his mind.  _Why can't you tell him? Tell just one person what you really are, what you've really done. Why not him?_

But that was a dangerous thought. It came to him in a time of weakness, when the idea of it was more appealing than the options reality had given to him. Spy would be killed, surely, for what he had done. He would not let this rest, he would cause a fuss, and that would be the end of it. The end of him.

The end of  _them._

_Tell him,_ the voice urged, and Medic frowned.  _Let him understand. Let him think better of you than this._

Spy pushed the papers aside and picked up the photograph from beneath them.

“I found this,” he said, his voice back at speaking volume, “the first time I came to find the truth. Rummaging through your office, digging through drawers like an amateur. I was surprised to find this again. You brought it with you. This is your family?”

“Yes.”

“You were a fat baby.”

Medic swallowed.

“That is my son.”

Spy's eyes flicked to him and narrowed.

“ _Pardon?”_

_You've started. Don't stop now._

“The child is my son. My Joseph. That photograph was taken shortly after his first birthday.”

Spy squinted at the picture. At the yellowed paper, the clothing, the washed out lighting. The age of it. His frown deepened.

“The bearded man, that is-”

“Me.”

Spy stared at the photo, then at Medic. Then back to the photo.

“And this is your wife.”

“Yes. Ilse.”

“She's a very beautiful woman.”

Medic smiled, despite himself.

“She was, yes. Then. Many years ago.”

“When was this photograph taken? Why are you all dressed like this?”

“Turn it over.”

Spy hesitated for a moment before flipping the frame. He pushed aside the little tabs holding everything in place and slid the paper out of the glass. A short lock of golden hair, tied with a small white ribbon and flattened by years of being compressed came with it. Spy caught them both in his gloved hand and stared.

He looked at Medic out of the corner of his eye.

“You're lying.”

“What would be the point, Spy?”

Spy flipped the photograph elegantly between his fingers and held it out, upside down, so that Medic could see the date scrawled in the upper right corner in nearly faded blue ink.

“Eighteen-ninety,” he said, shaking the paper slightly. “You expect me to believe that this is a photograph of you from the year eighteen-ninety. That's impossible.”

“We die every day, and yet here we both are. Is that not impossible as well?”

Spy's expression faltered. He looked at the photo again.

Medic felt short of breath. He felt like his chest was being constricted, the metaphorical chains of his oaths and promises tightening around him. He was light-headed as well. Perhaps a side effect, or a symptom. Stress. Anxiety. Fear.

He had never spoken of this before. Any of it. Truthfully, he'd never needed to. The only people who knew were those who were directly involved. They were there with him, every step of the way, never needing to explain a thing. They all lived it together. To talk openly of things that had been kept secret for so long felt like he imagined baring one's soul must feel. He'd been cut open before, had his literal heart on display, but even that had not been as nerve wracking as this. Perhaps because he knew that there were too many ways for this to go wrong. Either Spy would believe him or he wouldn't. If he didn't, then his life would be forfeit. Belief or not, he would know. And Helen would not allow him to live. And if he did believe, what then? Would he stay? Swear himself to secrecy, promise to keep to the lie that Medic had been living? There was no guarantee, and no way to know until it was done.

He had started now, pushed by that little voice, and there was no going back.

“I have never fought in a war,” Medic said, willing his voice not to shake. Spy looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Not a real war. These toy wars we wage do not count. I am a doctor. I was never a soldier.”

“The file-”

“Is another lie. A compilations of horrors I was not part of. It was the failsafe, should someone such as yourself reach this point. The final excuse. And now I find myself unable to adhere to it.”

Spy lowered his hands, letting the picture and the lock of hair hang by his side.

“What could you possibly excuse that is worse than this?” he asked. He was not looking at the file's contents either. Medic steeled himself with a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

“There is nothing worse than this. That is why it became the perfect excuse. I am well aware of my reputation, Spy,” he said steadily. “I am a German doctor of seemingly appropriate age, with a penchant for medical experimentation that pushes the boundaries of science. I know what has been whispered behind my back. What some of the others think of me, though they might never say it aloud. Scout does not whisper as quietly as he thinks he does. The role was unpleasant, but convenient. Sometimes it is simply easier to be what people expect you to be, is it not?”

Spy's eyes widened a fraction. Medic didn't wait for him to respond.

“I was thirty-six when that photo was taken,” he said, out loud, for the very first time. “We had only come to America a year earlier, perhaps a year and a half. Neither of us spoke much English. Enough to get by. Enough to find work. Or rather, to allow work to find me.”

“ _Docteur,_ the date-”

“The date on the photo is correct.”

Spy pursed his lips in a way that Medic had come to understand meant he was biting his tongue. There was suspicion his eyes, and that shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. Certainly in their line of work they had no real reason to trust each other, but Medic had hoped...

“The first Gravel War started in eighteen-ninety,” Spy said, quietly, after a moment, and Medic felt the tightness in his chest loosen slightly. “You were a part of that?”

“Yes.”

“Explain.”

Medic hesitated.

“You may want to sit down.”

 

* * *

 

It was easier once he got started. Once he knew what order to put the words in, how much detail to add and how much to leave out. Spy listened, silently, as he told his tale.

Ilse had become pregnant shortly after arriving in the country, and the search for work, already imperative, became desperate. It was fortunate for all of them that Helen found him when she did. That she saw the value of his mind behind the heavy accent and few, broken phrases of English he had repeated to himself over and over and over in the mirror until he got them right: I am a doctor. I want to work. I want to help.

Helen spoke to him in his mother tongue and asked to see his qualifications. She asked what kind of a doctor he was. She asked him if he had ever heard of the Mann Brothers Corporation. He said no.

The next day he received a package containing two train tickets, the deed to a modest home in New Mexico, his first month's salary in advance, and a list of instructions.

He never looked back.

His contract was with Builders League United. Their “Medic,” as was to be his new title, was an elderly man unable to handle the strain of battle. He took ill in the desert heat and didn't recover, leaving the BLU team without a healer. Though in those days there was much less “healing” going on in the sense that there was today. He had no medigun. He had no magical healing drugs that could patch a man up in seconds. To die on the battlefield in those days meant to _die._ No Respawn, no recovery, no second chances. These men were tough. They were vicious. They were survivors. They came to him with broken bones, bullet wounds, scrapes and burns and bruises that lingered for days, sometimes weeks in their skin. He was the one that kept them alive, on and off the field.

When he worked up the courage to ask for a better laboratory and better materials, he was astonished when they were provided with no questions asked. When he asked for more funding, it was granted. The restrictions were not so tight in those days. Which was incredibly fortunate, or he never would have been able to start his work in earnest.

He had been with BLU for two years when he made the first breakthrough.

The original intention was a healing serum. A prototype for the same compound that now gave the medigun its healing capabilities, initially designed for direct injection into the bloodstream around the wound site.

The initial tests were disastrous. Because each individual had their own genetic makeup – something they had not even the barest understanding of in those days – it was impossible to create a one-size-fits-all solution to the problem. He would have had to create nine different version of the serum, each tailored directly to each member of the team, and for for every additional person that may wish to make use of such a drug. But he was being given vast amounts of funding. He was expected to submit reports, to provide results. He was working less and less in the field and more in the lab, and that is where his employers wanted him to stay. The pressure was enormous. He was overwhelmed.

That was when Radigan Conagher introduced him to Australium.

The element changed everything. Absolutely _everything._ It was rare and expensive and finite, it worked miracles. Radigan, who served as the BLU Engineer, had been using it with his machinery, running tests on his ingenius inventions that would one day reshape the face of the battlefields forever. He was generous enough to provide Medic with a single brick. And that was all he needed.

Four years later, Medic had effectively stopped his own aging.

The serum was made to speed the healing process. To replenish cells, to stitch flesh back together, to force the body to work overtime in repairing itself. It did all of that and more. Medic's first and best test subject was himself. The initial trials were dangerous and incomplete and nearly killed him, but he persevered. His funding increased. He was given an allowance of Australium to work with. He worked himself to exhaustion and put his term in mortal peril and it was worth it because it _worked._ He did not share his larger breakthroughs with the rest of the team, not even Radigan, who had become his dear friend. He continued to heal them, of course, but this power was to be his alone. Until it was finished, he told himself. Until it was ready.

When Helen approached him with her offer – the annulment of the intellectual property rights section of his contract and protection in exchange for exclusive access to his research and its benefits – he immediately accepted. He did not work for the company any longer. He worked for _her._

Irena was born in the year nineteen-hundred, after a difficult pregnancy. Joseph had just turned ten years old. The gravel war was beginning to wind down. All the original term members, on both sides, were fast approaching ages where they would no longer be in any shape to fight. Still, Medic did not help them. He alone remained untouched by the sands of time. Even his wife was kept in the dark about the nature of his health. She watched as the years passed and his hair remained thick and dark and free of grey, as no lines formed on his face, as his body refused to whither and soften and give in to the years that clawed at it. He would learn, many years later, just how much she hated him for it.

When the war finally drew to an uneasy close, no clear victor, no feeling that anything they had done mattered, the old mercs said their goodbyes and parted ways. Radigan, who had been altered himself by the massive quantities of raw, unprocessed Australium he had exposed himself to, took all of his research and left only a shed full of scrap in his wake. Medic himself followed a similar path. He saved all of his work, hid it, and burned what could not be saved or taken with. Then he went to Helen. Then, he went into hiding.

The hope was that without Radigan Conagher there to maintain them, the Mann brother's life support machines would fail and kill them both. This did not come to pass. Contact with Helen was infrequent, but she saw that he was supplied and funded to continue his work in secret. She told him that he was being hunted. That Blutarch Mann had learned of the healing serum's true capabilities and wanted to call in his dues. There was a price on Medic's head. Helen was his lifeline. Over the course of a decade, when he had shared not only his research but the product itself with her, they became something that could almost resemble friends.

Then came The War. The _real_ war.

Joseph had never seen Germany. He was twenty-four and of sound body and mind. He attended the best schools his father could afford to send him to, and he wanted to help. He did not fight for a cause or for an empire. He went to the land he considered “home” because people were hurting and dying and he wanted to help them.

He wanted to be the man he thought his father was.

He died at twenty-six.

It was his death that started Ilse's decline. The shock resulting from his loss left her bedridden. Chronic pain and fatigue plagued her. More and more Medic drifted from his work to be by her side, and more and more she pushed him away. As her body failed and her beauty faded, she couldn't bear to look at him. Couldn't bear to see him young and healthy and whole as she rotted away, the cancer eating her from the inside.

He offered to heal her. Offered to save her, as he had saved himself.

She refused.

In the span of two years, Medic lost both his wife and his son. And his daughter, a young woman now, always too bright and headstrong for her age, was slipping away as well as she pursued her own interests. He sent her to the most prestigious schools in the country, paid for her every need, and wrote to her often. Impulsively, during one of her visits home, he told her the truth about himself and his work.

She wrote less frequently after that. And the longer the house sat empty, the deeper he slipped into depression.

In nineteen twenty-four, at seventy years old, Medic stopped taking the serum. He sold the house, packed his belongings and went to wait for the years to claim him.

He also made the mistake of ceasing to send it to Helen as well.

When she found him, finally, they were both in poor shape. They had aged rapidly without the serum to sustain them. Shells of their former selves, brittle and sagging and grey, Medic laughed when she offered him a job in exchange for his life. There was unrest in New Mexico again. The brothers grew impatient as their lives stretched on without end. Old tensions were rising and the feud would soon be coming to a head. New teams would be assembled. They would need a doctor. And what better place to hide from Blutarch Mann than right under his nose?

A new contract was drawn up. A new batch of serum was prepared. A new identity was forged, and Medic's new life began in nineteen thirty-two when he arrived at his familiar old base by rail and was greeted by the strong handshake of a man who could only be Radigan Conagher's son.

The next ten years were a blur of blood and gunfire and strange, wonderful new science. Early, short-range teleporters were developed. Early versions of self-replenishing dispensers came next. With his supply of Australium restored and a new great mind to work with, Medic developed the first model of the medigun, which was only capable of healing mild to moderate flesh wounds and required frequent and time-consuming refueling. He continued to work on what Helen had come to refer to as his “miracle drug.” With each variation it became stronger, lasted longer, healed more damage and accelerated more cell regeneration. He was more careful this time, never testing on his teammates, only on himself. Later, when that became too hazardous, he tested on animals. Doves proved to be ideal test subjects, if only because they were so easy to easy to come by. Of the original twenty-five, Archimedes was the only one to survive.

When the Second Gravel Wars come to a bitter and unsatisfactory end – financial concerns, not health, were the reason for this particular stalemate – Medic turned to Helen once more for assistance and support. This time, he was made to sign a contract stating he would not run again. Helen claimed she would hold him to it, and he didn't doubt her for a moment.

In nineteen forty-eight, Irena and her husband lost control of their car in the rain and drove off of a bridge. Their bodies were recovered three days later, when the storm had passed. They left behind their six year old daughter, Laura, to be raised by her grandfather.

Medic did not detail what became of her.

Medic's depression returned. This time, however, Helen did not leave him to his own devices. She visited infrequently, whenever she could, and not simply to keep tabs on him and make sure he was holding up his end of the bargain. A bond had formed between them over the years. Two people, brilliant and extraordinary in their own separate ways, brought together by the simple desire to live. To _outlast_ all that had come before them. It was a lofty goal, and one that seemed destined for failure. Yet there they were. And still, they remained.

In nineteen fifty-four, Medic celebrated his one hundredth birthday alone, with only his birds for company. He looked in the mirror and saw a man not even half his age staring back at him. Laura sent him a card. Helen did not.

Six years later, she called with a new job offer, this time under contract for Redmond Mann. It was unwise to pull the same trick twice. Medic accepted without hesitation.

“The fighting didn't start until sixty-six, as you know,” he said, addressing the man sitting very still across from him for the first time in hours. “This has been a new sort of war. Respawn has certainly made things easier, as well as presented new challenges. But it felt good to be in the middle of battle again. To have blood on my hands, to really feel _alive_ after all those years of sitting around. I didn't realise how much I missed it all.”

Spy had not moved from his seat. He'd shifted, raised his hands to light and stub out his cigarettes, but he didn't get up. He didn't leave. He sat and he listened and he stared and now that his story had come to an end, Medic didn't know what to say to him.

Spy wasn't looking at his face. He stared instead at his chest, smoking slowly, expression kept carefully neutral. He only looked up once he realised Medic had nothing more to say.

“You're telling the truth, aren't you?” he said softly, but Medic didn't miss the way his voice cracked toward the end. Just a little, and from something other than disuse. He nodded.

“There is no point in lying any longer.”

Spy sucked a deep drag from what was left of his cigarette, exhaling idly through his nose as he flicked the ash onto the floor. Any other time, and were he anyone else, Medic would have dissected him for that. Now all he could do was sit, and watch, and wait.

For judgment.

For questions.

For forgiveness.

“This drug you developed,” Spy said, fiddling with his cigarette case and finding it empty. He closed it gently and tucked it back into his jacket. “That is what you've been taking? What I saw you injecting into yourself that- that first night. And you've been taking it all along.”

“Yes.”

“This is what you weren't permitted to tell me about.”

“Yes.”

“And what happens now that you _have_ told me?”

“I was rather hoping that nothing would have to happen.”

Spy blinked.

“Nothing? You don't think things will change now?”

“They don't have to.”

“You are not worried that I will betray you? Sell this information to the highest bidder and retire to a private island to live out my days in peace?”

The corner of Medic's mouth twitched into what might have been a wry smile.

“You've clearly put a lot of thought into this. But no, I am not worried about that. Should I be?”

“No,” Spy said, after a moment, more softly than Medic suspected he meant to. “No, _Docteur,_ you do not need to worry about that. Your secrets are quite safe with me.”

The bands of fear that had been wrapping around Medic's chest seemed to disappear. A pressure was lifted off of him, replaced with something that was dangerously close to hope. The world had not collapsed. Spy had not turned on. Helen had not burst in, gun's blazing, to call him a fool and erase all traces of this conversation from the face of the planet. Most importantly, he had not cried. There were points where he had to pause, to wait for the catch in his throat to go away, but not a single tear had fallen from his eyes. He'd done quite enough crying in his lifetime. He had no time for it.

Cautiously, Medic laid his hand on top of the desk, palm up, and extended it. Spy regarded it warily.

“I would like to show you something,” Medic said, before he could think better of it. “If you will let me?”

After a long moment's hesitation, Spy placed his own gloved palm against Medic's own, and didn't protest when their fingers gently wound together. Medic smiled and stood up.

 

* * *

 

“ _Mon Dieu,_ what have you been doing in here?”

The room was a disaster, of course. The paper was the least of it. Crumpled up, tacked to the walls – and the ceiling, after he ran out of wall space – torn to shreds and scattered to all corners of the room. Then there were the pencils. What was left of them. Worn down eraser nubs and wood, shavings everywhere,  _several_ broken sharpeners. Empty pens. Broken pens. Dry markers. Markers with their felt tips scrubbed down flat and fluffy. More than a few dry inkpots.

And then there was the filtration system itself.

The furnace, which heated the Australium to molten, constant temperatures. The yards of copper tubing, coolant, choke-points, literal bottlenecks, Bunsen burners, flasks and vials and graduated cylinders, all arranged more or less haphazardly along the multiple tables and shelves. It wasn't an ideal set up by any means. Coldfront wasn't nearly as well equipped as it used to be, but Medic had made due. In fact, he was rather proud of his arrangement.

“Working,” he replied simply, pulling the heavy door closed behind them and locking it securely. He crossed to the desk in two strides and shut off the little drainage valve, examining the substance that had dripped into the little reservoir. Good. It was ready.

“Sit, _bitte,”_ Medic said, gesturing to the small, sadly disused cot. It was covered in even more papers, inksplattered notebooks and binders and file folders, but Spy was able to push enough of it aside to make himself comfortable. Medic pulled out his own chair and dug around for his supplies.

When he opened the casing containing a sterile syringe, he hesitated.

“Will this bother you?”

Spy looked distastefully at the thing.

“That depends on what you intend to do with it.”

“It isn't for you,” he promised. “But I want to show you what I've been working on. What I've spent the better part of my life perfecting. Surely you've seen the effects, the results of a successful dosage, but to actually see the _process-”_

As he spoke he set about preparing himself, rolling up his sleeve, tying the elastic tourniquet tightly around his bicep. He leaned forward, laying a hand on Spy's leg, staring into the other man's face.

“I want to share this with you,” he said sincerely.

Spy stared at him, and then his eyes flicked to the needle on the desk. Beneath the fabric of his mask, Medic saw his throat work as he swallowed. But he placed his hand over Medic's own and nodded.

Medic smiled. He leaned forward and pressed a quick little kiss to the corner of Spy's mouth and sat back again, reaching for his needle and the small vial of golden liquid sitting next to it. An eyeballed guesstimation of the dosage – different every time, it mattered little – and a swipe with an antiseptic swab, and Medic was ready. He found the vein, and pushed the plunger down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not entirely sure i did this reveal the justice it deserves, but this is it. ta-daa.


	22. Time For It Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's so short!

Spy groaned.

His arm was asleep. Something heavy was on top of it, he could not move it, and he could not feel it. But it was definitely asleep.

There was a light shining in his eyes, which he found very odd because the room he was in had no windows. The secret little laboratory was built into the deepest level of the basement and surrounded on all sides by sturdy cement walls and reinforced steel. And as far as Spy could remember, the only lamp in the room had shattered when it was knocked rather violently to the floor.

Wincing, he cracked open one of his eyes.

At first he thought he was going blind. That his eye had somehow been damaged in the night for his vision to be so dark and fuzzy. He realised, however, that his mask had simply shifted over his face to cover half of his mouth and his eye. So he opened the other one.

The weight that was crushing his arm quickly become apparent. Medic lay beside him, the pair of them wedged miraculously onto the narrow little cot that until very recently had been covered in files and formulas and writing utensils. They'd gotten rid of all that last night. Shortly after getting rid of most of their clothes. Spy wasn't exactly sure how his mask had managed to stay on, but he was willing to bet that Medic was still wearing both of his socks as well.

One of Medic's arms was thrown heavily over Spy's middle, hand hanging out over the edge of the cot, while Spy's other arm was curled oddly against his own stomach. Their legs were tangled together beneath the single, rough, army-issue blanket that they had managed to throw over themselves before falling asleep. Spy was mostly on his back. His shoulders were pressed flat into the bed, while the lower half of his body was twisted toward the sleeping doctor, who was curled on his side next to him. Medic's back was to the wall. He was still very asleep.

Spy stared.

In all the excitement – between Medic screaming and falling out of his chair, then climbing all over each other and tearing their clothes off – he hadn't been able to get a good look at the man's face. He was aware of  _something_ happening, something  _changing,_ but seeing it now, still and calm in the as yet undiscovered light source, was quite something else.

Medic looked...

_Young._

It was more than just the lighting, or the peacefulness of his expression. There were fewer lines on his face. The finer wrinkles, around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, had all but disappeared. The laugh lines were still there. As were the frown lines, and the deep thought-creases in his forehead, but even they seemed lighter than before. The dark circles under his eyes had vanished completely. His hair was darker, and thicker, all the more obvious is its state of dishevelment. Spy remembered pulling his gloves off with his teeth, knotting his fingers in that hair, feeling it fuller in his grip. Was it longer as well? He couldn't be sure. Stubble formed a shadow along the doctor's jaw, dark and even and without a single trace of grey. His skin itself looked firmer. Clearer. _Younger._

He said the serum enhanced cellular regeneration. Spy believed it.

Medic looked...

_Beautiful._

Briefly, and all through their discussion the night before, Spy had considered telling Medic that he was in danger. That the Administrator had tasked Spy with his protection, and assure him that he couldn't possibly be in safer hands. But the Administrator's warning – _He will run. He mustn't know. –_ echoed in his head and stopped him. If Medic ran, as she seemed so certain he would, there was no guarantee that Spy would ever hear from him again. And looking at him now, their bodies draped over one another, breathing softly and still asleep, Spy didn't know if he could bear that.

Perhaps it was selfish of him. But perhaps it was for the best.

“ _Docteur,”_ Spy murmured softly. Medic's eyes cracked open slightly.

“Hn?”

Spy's lips twitched into a small smile. He sounded exhausted.

“I think it's morning.”

“Hn.”

“We should get up, don't you think?”

Medic turned his head, his stubble scraping against Spy's shoulder, and closed his eyes again. His arm curled tighter around Spy's waist, that small gesture pulling them all the closer together. Spy took advantage of the closeness by pressing a kiss to Medic's jaw, smiling widening as the doctor gave a contented sigh.

“We really should get up,” Spy insisted, even as he turned himself to press the length of his body of Medic's own. He was sleepy and warm, and the light was not so bright this way. And the way Medic was nuzzling into his neck was _very_ endearing. Perhaps just a little while longer.

“Later,” Medic breathed, echoing his thoughts. Spy heaved a sigh and closed his eyes.

 

“ _Mon Dieu,”_ Spy groaned, examining himself in the small shaving mirror. “I look like I've been mauled.”

Medic grimaced, fussing hurriedly with the buttons of his shirt. They were late. And at this rate someone was bound to have noticed their absence.

“Don't be dramatic. It isn't that bad.”

Spy turned to look at him incredulously, tilting his head so the doctor could get a good look at his neck and shoulder. Suck and bite marks, livid red and purple against his skin, marked all along his collarbone and up his throat, even extending up to his jawline beneath his ear.

“This is your doing,” he snapped without venom. “And this isn't all of them. Do you know I haven't had a hickie on my thighs since I was in my twenties? You have no shame.”

Medic looked entirely too pleased with himself. He picked Spy's shirt off the floor – horribly wrinkled and dusty now – and threw it to him.

“You left your share of marks as well, _schatz,”_ he said smugly. “They're gone now, of course, which is unfortunate, but I still felt them. You should clip your nails.”

“My nails are fine, _Docteur,_ it's your teeth that are monstrously sharp. Have you ever considered-”

Spy stopped. One arm halfway into his sleeve, mask rolled up to his chin, he stared at Medic.

“What did you just call me?”

“Hm?”

Medic was wrestling with his tie now, vest hanging open around his shoulders, not looking at him. Spy pulled on his shirt slowly.

“You called me... never mind. Where are my shoes?”

 

* * *

 

“You look like hell,” the Demoman said, when Spy took his place beside him at the starting gate. Spy grimaced, painfully aware that he had not shaved. Or bathed. Or even changed his suit.

“That means a lot, coming from _you,”_ he said, and Demo laughed.

“Noticed you weren't at breakfast, Spook,” Sniper said, sidling up beside him, stone faced, staring straight ahead. “Pyro saved you a seat and everything.”

“I wasn't hungry.”

“Late night on the job?”

Spy looked sidelong at the Australian. That was not an unfamiliar phrase between them.

“In a manner of speaking.”

He caught the way the corners of Sniper's mouth began to turn down before a heavy hand clapped him roughly on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him.

“You've been pokin' around with the BLUs again, haven't ye?” Demo said, fixing an arm around his shoulders and shaking him slightly. Spy couldn't tell if the heavy chemical smell coming off of him was alcohol or some form of explosive. Knowing the Demoman, probably both. “Givin' them a hard time, eh? Tryin' tae burn them out for us again?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Spy said flatly, carefully extricating himself from the Scotsman's grip. It didn't matter if they knew how the fire had been started or knew of his involvement. He could still never admit to it. Beside him, Sniper sniffed. Spy pulled out his cigarette case, intent to blow smoke into the man's face, and found it empty. He swore.

“Here, mate.”

Still without looking at him, Sniper extended a single cigarette held between two thin fingers. It was clearly home rolled, and of questionable quality, but tobacco was tobacco. Spy took it graciously.

“My thanks,” he said, lighting up, and received only a grunt in reply. Over the loudspeaker, the Administrator began her usual countdown.

When the doors opened, Spy was greeted with a face-full of wet, freezing sleet, carried on a gust of wind strong enough to cut straight through his suit. His teeth were chattering before he'd taken three steps out the door. But still he trudged on.

The battle was an extremely dull affair. With below-zero temperatures and the windchill factor, neither side was really invested in the fight. Nobody wanted to win. They just wanted the match to be over so that they could go back inside and get warm.

The BLU Sniper shot wide and gave away his position, and Soldier was on him in an instant. The two Medics tussled, briefly, when they ran around a corner and unexpectedly slammed into each other. The RED Medic – _his_ Medic, Spy found himself thinking – walked away with little more than a tear in his coat and a bounce in his step. When he was besieged by the BLU Scout, Spy didn't stick around long enough to see what he did to make the boy scream that way.

Spy ranged ahead, dealing with threats as they presented themselves. There was more squabbling than actual fighting. Neither side was putting up much resistance. He sapped the BLU Engineer's buildings in one fell swoop and sent the man himself through Respawn via a bullet to the head, and didn't see him again for almost five minutes. Lingering in the 'spawn was greatly discouraged – pay could be docked, among other things – but Spy could hardly the blame the man. It was hard enough to leave it himself, when the BLU Heavy caught him as he disguised and splattered him all across the wall in hail of gunfire.

By the time he got back out into the field, the fight had moved further across the map. He backstabbed the idling BLU Demo and slipped past their Pyro to pay back the Heavy. By the time he got into the BLU base, a brutal feud had broken out between Scout and the BLU Soldier.

Spy hid himself behind a stack of crates just inside the doors, watching as the men became more and more frustrated in their attempts to kill one another. He was waiting for an opening. If he waited for the Soldier to expend all of his rocket ammunition, he could come in from behind while Scout ran circles around him and put them both to shame. Petty, perhaps. But it would brighten his day.

He didn't hear the footsteps behind him. Didn't hear a thing, until the blade was driven deep between his ribs.

“You've been very busy,” the BLU Spy sneered, catching him with an arm around his chest as his legs gave out beneath him, his other hand still gripping the handle of his blade. This was not a clean kill.

“Finish it,” Spy tried to say. The blood filling his throat, choking him, made speaking nearly impossible, but he still managed to scream when the BLU twisted the knife. It was covered by the enemy Soldier's scream of rage as Scout filled the back of his leg with buckshot.

“I believe I owed you one, no?” the other Spy hissed, lowering him slowly to the floor. “Pity I don't have any _questions.”_

He ripped the blade viciously out of Spy's side and Spy nearly blacked out from the pain. By the time the spots faded from his vision, his BLU counterpart had walked away and disposed of Scout. The room was quiet now. The only thing Spy could hear was his own weak, fluttering heartbeat and the wet, sickening sound of himself trying to pull air into his lungs. He was bleeding out. The bastard had left him to die slowly, rather than send him directly through Respawn and deal with him shortly afterwards. This way, he was guaranteed at least a few minutes without needing to worry about revenge.

Spy lay perfectly still, acutely aware that his body was shutting itself down. He hated this. Hated the feeling of slipping away, resisting the urge to fight for his own life. That would accomplish nothing by this point but to prolong the inevitable.

His Ambassador was pressing into his hip, a cold reminder of the easy exit he could take. But blowing his own brains out was never an idea that appealed to Spy, regardless of the impermanence of death. The principle itself was off-putting. He couldn't do it, his pride wouldn't let him. All he could do was lay there, choking on his own blood, and wait for the blackness to claim him.

Respawning after a slow death was never a pleasant experience. The system left Spy nauseous under normal circumstances, but this time he was glad no one was around to witness him doubling over and retching into the snow.

It was another half an hour out in the snow before the Administrator called it a draw. Unfortunately, he was unable to pay his counterpart back in kind.

There would be time for it later, he was sure.

 


	23. Sanguine

“It's good to see you out and about again, Doc,” the Engineer said, and Medic jumped when a hand was clapped to his shoulder. He looked around at the shorter man beside him.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Across the table, where he was carefully setting out plates and silverware, Heavy laughed.

“It means Doktor has been hiding,” he said playfully. Medic raised his eyebrows.

“I have not been _hiding._ I have been _working.”_

“And are you gonna tell us on what?” Engineer asked, and Medic worked very hard not to let his eyes flick down to the end of the room, where Spy was slouching impatiently by the kitchen doors. He sniffed.

“Oh, the usual. Revolutionising the future of medicine. Blurring the boundaries between life and death. Creating scientific monstrosities.”

Engineer chuckled.

“Aright, pardner. Just let me know if you need any help.”

“ _Danke,”_ Medic said, as they sat down. It was Pyro's turn to cook tonight, which meant attendance was mandatory lest the arsonist get offended. No one really disputed this rule. Pyro was a surprisingly good cook.

When the food was eventually brought out, it was to choruses of relief and interest. A good, hot meal at the end of the day was always appreciated, but after the disappointment that had been the day's battle everyone was more excited for it than usual. It had been a long, cold day. To see steam coming off of the serving plates was a very welcome sight.

For a few minutes, the dining room was filled with the sound of nine grown men squabbling like children to fill their plates before the food ran out. Everybody wanted some of everything. Pyro never cooked to the same thing twice, never cooked only one type of food, and every one of their meals was an explosion of contrasting flavours and cultures. Tonight there was some kind of curry – Medic could smell the spice coming off of it from where he sat and kept a wide berth – along with a pile of what looked like very thin, very well-done steaks. Mashed potatoes, which Engineer hoarded without shame or apology, a salad of some sort that turned out to taste strongly of pickles, three separate rice dishes, many, many bread rolls, and some unidentifiable fruit that had been chopped into chunks, seasoned with herbs, and roasted. And all of it was delicious.

Medic had missed this. Being with his team, simply eating together and chatting about their days. He'd been too busy to join the table for much of the last two weeks. The only meals he took were breakfast scraps and shameful midnight snacks, raiding the refrigerator for whatever happened to be leftover for him. It wasn't the same.

Scout spent much of the meal embroiled in an argument with Sniper, over who had really been responsible for killing the BLU Demoman. Soldier was oddly quiet, but only because he was almost continuously shoving forkfuls of the pickle-salad into his mouth. Spy, seated across from him at the end of the table – he and Medic had agreed to sit apart for this particular meal, to dispel suspicious after arriving at breakfast together – watched him with an expression of horrified fascination. His own plate was considerably more modest. Medic was surprised when he took second helpings of the curry, however.

Medic quickly found his attention captured by Heavy and Engineer. It seemed all three of them had been rather busy lately. Medic remained evasive about the nature of his own work, but the other men were more than happy to talk about their respective projects. Heavy was developing yet another minigun design, specifically designed to combat the icy conditions, and having the added bonus of setting anyone who came near him on fire. He was still working out the problem of not setting  _himself_ on fire, but the tests seemed very promising. Engineer, by contrast, was working on something built with portability and utility in mind, significantly less flashy than some of his other designs. He mostly seemed surprised with himself for not thinking of it sooner.

“Doktor,” Heavy said, when the plates were nearly empty and people were starting to lean back contentedly in their chairs. “You are busy tonight?”

Medic risked a glance down the table, where Spy was making a sour expression at whatever Scout was saying to him.

“ _Nein._ Why do you ask?”

“It has been long time since we play chess together. You are always working. Do you want to play tonight?”

Medic smiled.

“I would like that very much, _mein Freund._ I could use a distraction. And you can tell me more about this new gun of yours, _ja?”_

Heavy's broad face split into a grin.

“ _Da,_ Doktor. Will tell you all about it.”

 

* * *

 

“I look like a homeless person,” Spy muttered, examining his reflection in the blade of a butter knife. Medic scoffed.

“You look fine.”

“Compared to _Soldier,_ perhaps. I need a shave. And a bath. A bath sounds particularly appealing this evening.”

They were putting dishes away, ducking their heads casually as they spoke, keeping a lookout for any teammates drawing too close. Spy  _did_ need a shave, though the day and a half's worth of stubble on his cheeks was not unattractive. Medic knew better than to say so.

“Well, you can't use my bathroom,” he said, shooting an apologetic look when Spy raised an eyebrow. “Heavy is coming to visit tonight. Play chess and talk and such. Having you splashing around in the background would not be very discreet, I'm afraid.”

“I do not _splash_ \- Fine. I will have to use the locker room showers then. Wonderful.”

“I hear Pyro has been keeping them quite clean lately.”

“How considerate of them. You've spoiled me, _Docteur,”_ he said, and his dropped both in volume and tone to something altogether more husky. “I've gotten used to certain luxuries. A private bathroom... A private bedroom, more or less...”

Medic slowed in his movements, heaving stacks of clean plates up into the cabinets.

“If I didn't know better I'd say you were simply using me for my facilities, Herr Spy,” he smirked. Spy put down the silverware he was admiring himself in and laughed softly.

“Oh, I'm using you for much more than that.”

Medic's reply was interrupted by Pyro bustling in, a platter full of leftovers held precariously out in front of them. Medic and Spy thanked them profusely for the meal, and each got a hug for their trouble. Medic laughed when Spy looked on the verge of screaming.

“I'm going to shower, and maybe do some laundry,” Spy said, when they were back out in the mess hall, lingering casually by the doorway. “How late shall I come by?”

Medic was struck by how domestic this conversation was. How simple and normal it all seemed, to be discussing laundry with Spy, of all people. It was an odd feeling. And he didn't know if he liked it or not.

“After ten,” Medic said, with a slight strain to his voice. “Heavy and I haven't spent time together in quite a while, and I suspect we'll have much to talk about. I'll leave the door unlocked.”

“Of course.” Spy looked at him appraisingly for a moment. Medic wondered if he was having the same realisation about their conversation. “Enjoy your game, _Docteur.”_

Spy laid a hand briefly on Medic's shoulder as he sauntered away. Medic was still staring after him when Heavy approached.

“Cannot find chess board,” the giant said, frowning. “It is not where I left it. Will have to find it, if you still want to play.”

“Of course,” Medic said, straightening up. He was not a short man by any standards, but standing next to Heavy always made him feel diminutive. “I have some tidying to do, if you want to go and look for it.”

Heavy nodded, but still frowned.

“I will talk to Demoman. He plays with Engineer sometimes. Will meet you downstairs?”

“ _Ja,_ in my office. It's alright if you can't find it, Heavy. We can simply talk if you'd prefer.”

Heavy's expression softened.

“Would like that, Doktor. But still want to play. You lose last time, remember? Want to give you chance to redeem yourself.”

Medic scowled, but there was no malice behind it.

“Fine, fine, bring the chessboard. Then we'll see who needs redeeming.”

Heavy's laughed rumbled through him even as he walked away.

 

* * *

 

The first thing he did when he entered the infirmary was to see to his birds. The poor things had been cooped up for most of the day and were overjoyed to see him and the bag of food he brought with him. They all shot out into the rafters, perching neatly on the support beams and preening each other affectionately. Only Archimedes stayed on his shoulder, until persuaded to depart by a special treat for him.

Medic set about hurriedly cleaning off his desk. All the files that Spy had brought with him the night before were still laid out in the open, and he was grateful he'd had the foresight to lock the doors behind him. If someone had come in and seen the photographs, or read anything in those pages...

Medic jumped as a pair of gloved hands began to snake their way around his waist.

“You changed your mind about the shower?” he said, leaning back into the man behind him.

“Mm-hmm.”

Spy's fingers began to pluck insistently at the buttons of his shirt. Medic didn't exactly feel like dissuading him.

“Heavy is still coming you know,” he said, then, more quietly, “Did you lock the door?”

“Yes.” His hands wandered up under Medic's shirt, palms sliding up his stomach and across his chest. “We won't be disturbed.”

Spy's mouth was against his neck and Medic sighed, letting his eyes fall shut. He frowned.

“You shaved?” he asked, noticing the smooth slide of Spy's cheek against his throat. Surely he wouldn't have taken the time to shave but not to shower, or change his suit. And odd, that he had found the time between here and the mess hall...

Spy's movements stilled just as Medic caught a whiff of his cologne.

The _wrong_ cologne.

“ _Spion!”_ he hissed, trying to wrench away, but the BLU Spy was too fast. The hands that had been smoothing softly over his skin now shot up and curled around his arm and his throat, locking him in a surprisingly strong half-Nelson. Medic reared back, but the Spy's head was not where he expected it to be. He grit his teeth as a foot slammed into the back of his knee, buckling his leg out from beneath him.

Medic had the advantage in terms of strength, and from his lower position he was able to pull his attacker forward and off balance. The pressure on his windpipe lessened slightly. He tried to free his arm, shifting his weight forward, but the BLU used his momentum against him and shoved him forward. Medic's face hit the edge of his desk, his glasses crunching painfully against his nose. Blinded by pain, he reached back and managed to grab a handful of the Spy's mask, and the hair beneath. He yanked, hard.

A knee was driven into the small of his back, and his shout of pain was quickly choked off by the arm tightening again around his throat. They toppled forward. Medic scrabbled for purchase, trying to flip over. As he fought to get his bearings, the BLU Spy rearranged his position, holding Medic down with the weight of his body, and grabbed a fistful of his hair. Medic's forehead was slammed viciously into the floor. Once, then twice, and then again. Black spots exploded across Medic's vision. He made a weak attempt to swing his arm back, to try and knock the Spy off of him. It didn't work. The man's forearm closed over his throat once more.

Medic struggled, fought for every breath of air, but he was rapidly losing this battle. His head felt as though it had been split open. He couldn't breathe. When the strength left his limbs, his face and fingertips going numb, the BLU Spy cautiously loosened his grip.

“That took long enough” he muttered, and Medic was aware of his arms being moved. Slipping on the edge of consciousness, there was nothing he could do as his hands were roughly bound behind him. The weight was lifted from his body as the BLU Spy stood up, his footsteps moving quickly across the room. When he returned, it was with a bag of supplies. Medic tried to tilt his head, to see what exactly was going on. He got a clear enough idea when the cool press of an antiseptic swab was pressed to the inside of his arm.

“ _Nein...”_ he slurred, trying to work out of his bonds. The BLU Spy grabbed his hair and smashed his head into the floor again. Medic's leg jerked convulsively behind him. Bile rose in the back of his throat, burning his sinuses. The Spy simply tutted.

“This would be so much easier if I could simply sedate you,” he said, and Medic was dimly aware of the prick of a needle into the crook of his arm. “That runs the risk of contamination, however. I hope you'll excuse my somewhat _messier_ methods.”

Medic could tell he was smirking. He couldn't see the man's face, but he knew. He wanted to carve that smile right off his face, show him a thing or two about  _messy methods._ But the act of staying conscious was enough of a challenge at the moment. He couldn't even bring himself to be alarmed when he realised exactly what was happening to him.

Blood. The Spy was taking his blood.

“You've proven quite elusive over the decades, Doctor,” the Spy said coolly. “My employers were rather surprised to find you here, of all places, right under their noses. Surely you didn't think you could pull it off.”

Medic tried to ball his hand into a tight fist, to push the needle out or break it off entirely. He couldn't feel his fingers.

“You've been careless as well, _Docteur,”_ the Spy cooed, curling the title around his mouth in a frighteningly accurate impersonation of the RED Spy – _my_ Spy, Medic thought suddenly. There was a hand in his hair again, gentler this time. Caressing, not gripping. “You've done half my job for me, letting me get as close as I did. Though I suppose he is allowed _much_ closer, _non?”_

Medic tried to jerk away from the touch. He only succeeded in straining his neck and digging the shattered remains of his glasses deeper into his cheek. The Spy laughed and patted the back of his head, as though he were calming a fussy child.

“Relax, _Docteur._ They don't pay me enough to care about your personal perversions. I have what I came here for.”

Medic felt weak. He felt helpless and sluggish and cold, and it wasn't until he caught sight of the large bag rapidly filling with red that he understood why. The bastard was bleeding him dry.

This was Mann's solution. It had taken him long enough to come up with it. If he couldn't get his hands on the formula, couldn't get his hands on Medic himself, then he would drain the serum straight from his veins and have his own scientists go about reverse engineering it, he supposed. Medic was almost impressed.

He could feel the strength leaving his limbs, leeching into the cold tiles of the floor, draining through the thin tube in his arm. The Spy was taking too much blood. Medic wondered, idly, if he meant to take all of it and leave him as a dried up husk. In his present condition, he had no way of knowing how much time was passing. It could have been hours for all he knew. Time slipping past as his life slipped away from him. There was no point trying to fight now.

It was over.

On the very brink of greatness, and now it was all over.

The hand was on the back of his head again, stroking his hair affectionately, and Medic used to last of his strength to spit the blood in his mouth onto the Spy's shoes.

“Oh, don't be that way,” the BLU said, but withdrew his hand. “We're all finished here, see?”

He held up the bag – alarmingly large and alarmingly full – of Medic's blood. Medic's vision was fuzzy. He felt dizzy.

“Apologies, Doctor,” the BLU Spy said, rising to his feet. “It's only business. Nothing personal. Although...”

The kick to his stomach was brutal. Medic gasped, curling in on himself as his body spasmed. He felt himself being rolled over, and then the arch of an expensive shoe was crashing his windpipe.

“Perhaps you will think better of it, the next time you decide to keep a person's head as a trophy,” the Spy spat, the blue blur of his form blurring above Medic as his eyes rolled back in his head.

He couldn't breath. He could taste what precious little blood he had left in the back of his throat. There was a good chance he was bleeding internally, but he couldn't focus on that. He couldn't focus on anything. Darkness was creeping into the edges of his vision. Swallowing him, dragging him down into the depths of unconsciousness. And he couldn't fight it.

Medic closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

“Shit, the door's locked.”

Pounding.

“Doc, c'mon! Ain't hospitals supposed to stay open all the time?”

Pounding.

“Stop shouting. Doktor? I bring chess board. Scout is whining like little baby about little splinter. May we come in?”

Pounding. Softer.

“Doktor?”

“Man, whatever. Forget your little chess date, he's not gonna open up.”

“Quiet. Doktor? Are you in there?”

Pounding. Louder. Rattling.

“Should not be locked.”

“Yeah, well it is, so let's just- whoa, what are you-”

Crashing. _Loud._

“What the fuck, man! You outta your tiny mind, he's gonna-”

“Doktor, where are- _Doktor!”_

Footsteps.

Hands, on him. Gentle.

“Oh man. Oh man, oh jeez, Jesus fucking Christ.”

“ _Doktor._ Doktor, please, look at me. Open eyes.”

Bright. Too bright.

“Is he-?”

“Alive. He is alive. _Слава Богу.”_

Hands, warm and shaking. Lifting him. Holding him, close and safe.

“Get team.”

“W-what? I ain't gonna just _leave_ him-”

“ _Get team._ Go for help, I stay with him. Am staying, Doktor. I am here, will not leave you.”

“But- but what if-”

“ _Scout, GO.”_

Footsteps. Running. A hand, cradling his head. A heartbeat against his own. A large, warm body, holding him tightly. Holding him close.

“Heavy is here, Doktor.”

Softly.

“Not going to leave you. _Never_ leave you.”

_Safe._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	24. What's Done In The Dark...

Spy had just gotten the water to the perfect temperature when the alarms sounded.

“ _Merde.”_

He quickly rinsed away the handful of shampoo he'd just squeezed out and shut the water off. As he was hastily drying himself off and pulling his mask back on, he became aware of sounds in the hallway outside. Footsteps. Someone was running.

He stuck his head out into the hall just in time for Scout and Engineer to hurry by.

“What's the situation?” Spy asked, straightening his balaclava. A shotgun was immediately shoved in his face.

“Identify yourself,” Engineer growled, jaw set coldly. With a finger, Spy moved the barrel of the gun away from his head.

“At ease, _Labourer.”_

The Texan frowned, but lowered the gun. Beside him, Scout was dancing from foot to foot in agitation.

“Come on, come on, we gotta go,” the boy was saying, his voice higher than usual, tugging at Engineer's sleeve.

“What is going on?” Spy asked, gesturing for them to continue to their destination. For a man with such short legs, the Engineer walked surprisingly fast.

“Something's wrong with the Doc,” he said, and Spy's heart skipped a beat.

“What?”

“He's all beat up,” Scout said, and Spy noticed just how pale the boy was. “Th-there was blood all over his face, and on the floor an' he was- he was all tied up or somethin' but he wasn't movin'.”

“And you just _left_ him?” Spy hissed, matching Engineer's stride now, a sick feeling settling in his stomach. Scout shook his head vigorously.

“Heavy's with him.”

“Did you see anyone else on your way to get me?” Engie asked, and Scout shook his head again. The Texan's frown became even more pronounced. He was the first to push his way into the infirmary, with Spy hot on his heels.

They caught sight of the doctor, and stopped. Spy's breath caught in his throat.

Medic was on the floor, slumped limply in Heavy's arms. His shirt was open, and his hands looked to be bound behind him. His face was so bloodied and bruised that he was almost unrecognizable. And Scout was right. He wasn't moving.

Heavy looked up at them helplessly as they entered. Spy crossed the room in three strides and immediately fell to his knees beside them.

“ _Docteur,”_ he said urgently, hands shaking as he carefully pulled the bindings from Medic's wrists. He wasn't wearing his gloves. _“Docteur,_ can you hear me?”

Medic's eyelids fluttered weakly, but he did not reply. Heavy was cradling him like a child to his broad chest, one large hand supporting his head to stop it from lolling. Spy cupped the doctor's pale face in his hands and turned it toward him, swallowing when he realised the extent of the damage. This was very, very bad.

“Medic?” he tried again, unable to stop his voice from cracking. He glanced up at Heavy. “Has he said anything? Has he spoken at all?”

Slowly, the giant shook his head. Engineer cleared his throat.

“Get him up on the table,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “I'll get this hooked up, and hopefully that'll be enough to stabilize him.”

Spy looked around to what the Engineer was referring to. His eyes landed on the Medigun, resting where Medic must have dumped it at the end of the day. He looked at the empty ceiling mount, and then back to the Engineer.

“Do you know how to hook it up?”

“No,” the Texan said slowly. “But I reckon I can figure it out, if one of you fellas can help me hold it in place. Heavy, can you lift the Doc? Scout, you spend more time down here than most of us, do you know where he keeps the bandages and such?”

Spy got unsteadily to his feet while Heavy lifted Medic, as though he weighed nothing at all, and laid him gently on the padded examination table. Scout zipped off to the back of the room, frantically pulling open cabinet doors and drawers.

“Third shelf,” Spy called, when the boy passed by his quarry for the third time. “Find a cloth and run it under the water. And bring that jar of antiseptic as well.”

Engineer hauled the Medigun over and set it heavily on the equipment cart, pulling at the cords and wires that connected it to the charge pack. Scout passed the supplies to Spy, who took them with steady hands. He used the damp cloth – too damp, and Scout had used cold water instead of warm – to carefully clean the worst of the blood off of the doctor's face. Medic was deathly pale. There was a thin sheen of sweat across his brow, and his skin was decidedly cool to the touch. If Spy didn't know any better he'd say Medic had lost a large amount of blood, but there were no signs of a wound beside the one to his head, and there wasn't enough blood on the floor to account for his condition. Spy pressed his fingers to the doctor's neck, feeling for a pulse. It was faint, but rapid. He was in shock.

“Help me lift this, big fella,” Engineer grunted, hoisting the Medigun onto his shoulder and trying to position it into the ceiling mount. Heavy, who had been staring despondently at Medic's battered face, snapped to attention and took the weight of the gun in one hand. Engie climbed up to kneel on the table to better get at the wiring. Scout stood uncertainly to the side, watching with wide eyes.

With most of the blood cleared from Medic's face, Spy could see the smaller wounds. There was a deep, nasty gash across the bridge of his nose, and bits of what looked like glass in his cheek and eyebrow, from his glasses most likely. Spy picked out the larger shards as carefully as he could. Medic did not so much as flinch.

“Connect this there... Tighten this just a bit... That oughta do it.”

Heavy cautiously let go of the Medigun. It remained steadily in its mount. Engineer pushed the power lever forward and climbed down, and the gun hummed to life. The red healing beams flowed down toward Medic's chest, seeping into his skin. Spy watched with bated breath as the tiny cuts in Medic's face closed up and smoothed over. Some of the colour returned to his cheeks. The doctor's eyes opened a fraction. His fingers twitched.

“ _Docteur?”_ Spy said, reaching for his hand. “Can you hear me?”

Medic's fingers tightened around his.

“ _Ja,”_ he croaked, but it was enough. Spy fairly fell forward, holding Medic's hand, touching his face, his heart hammering in his chest. He was babbling, he knew, in English and French and all the languages in between, prayers and thanks and apologies murmured between the kisses he pressed to the doctor's brow and his cheeks and the corners of his mouth. He didn't even realise what he was doing, and that they were very not alone, until Heavy shifted across from him.

Spy pulled away slowly.

Heavy was staring at him, and the look on the giant's face cut him straight to the core. His eyes flicked between Medic and Spy, an expression of heartbroken understanding settling across his features. Spy didn't know how he'd missed it. How he hadn't seen the way Heavy looked at the doctor. And now-

The lights went out.

“Aw, hell,” Engineer said, as the healing rays of the Medigun faded away. “Damn storm must've cut the power. The generators oughta switch on any sec-”

As he spoke, the lights overhead flickered back to life, accompanied by the stuttering hum of the Medigun. Medic took a deep breath and tried to sit up.

“Careful, Doktor,” Heavy said, reaching out to stop him, but his hand hovered hesitantly over Medic's shoulder. Medic had just managed to prop himself up on his elbows when a blast reverberated through the base, and the lights went out once more.

“Dammit, dammit, _dammit.”_

“He's blown the generators,” Medic said, his voice weak and trembling. He found Spy's hand in the darkness and held it tightly.

“He?” Spy asked, holding just as tightly right back. He heard Medic's throat working drily as he swallowed.

“The BLU Spy. And he must have been the one to cut the power. He's still here, in the building. If we hurry we can-”

The doctor tried to sit all the way up and swing his legs over the edge of the table. Heavy caught him as he fell.

“You're not goin' anywhere, Doc,” Engineer said sternly, trying to pull him back onto the table. Medic waved him away with surprising vigour.

“He's still _here,”_ the doctor hissed, struggling ineffectively in Heavy's grasp. “I have to find him, have to get- he took-”

The little strength Medic had managed to build seemed to fade out of him. He slumped forward weakly, groaning in pain and frustration. His voice cracked when he spoke.

“You don't understand. I have to stop him. He cannot leave, cannot be allowed to leave. I have to get it back before he can take it away, I _have_ to-”

“You have to rest,” Engie said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “If that slimy bastard's still here, you can bet we'll be able to find him and get back whatever it is he took. But you, mister, are gonna lay down and rest before you kill yourself. Now, with that storm outside, I can bet you he ain't goin' nowhere fast. And with the power out, it's going to get mighty cold in here mighty fast. Heavy, would you and Spy be so kind as to help the good doctor to his room? Scout, you're gonna help me get all those bandages you found, and anything else the Doc says we need to make sure he heals up right. Get movin'.”

With their orders, there was no room for anyone to argue. Spy came around the table and hooked Medic's arm around his shoulder while Heavy did the same on the other side, neither of them looking at each other in the limited light. They led Medic slowly to his bedroom, walking him in sideways and helping him carefully into his bed. The covers were unmade, though he hadn't slept in it in over a week. The only person to have been sleeping in this room was Spy, and he was now wishing he'd left it in better shape.

Spy lifted Medic's legs and tucked them beneath the blankets while the doctor instructed Heavy on where to find the few candles he had placed around the room. The light revealed more than Spy wished it would.

One of his suits was hanging on the back of Medic's bedroom door, freshly laundered and pressed. A spare mask and an extra pair of gloves, along with one of his watches, was resting in plain view on top of the dresser. A pair of his trousers, underwear still in them, belt still in the loops, was hanging haphazardly out of the laundry basket. Two toothbrushes sat by the sink in the little off-suite bathroom, along with two separate and very distinct brands of aftershave.

Heavy took in these details as he lit more and more candles, and Spy watched his mouth press into a thin, cold line. He said nothing, however. And Medic, laying back in the pillows with his eyes closed, hadn't noticed a thing. He still hadn't let go of Spy's hand.

“I need to elevate my feet,” Medic grumbled, when Engineer and Scout had returned with more bandages and a bag full of saline solution. “And fluids. Lot of fluids. My body is still in shock, though the Medigun did help. Spy, _bitte,_ put this pillow beneath my legs. Engineer, do you know how to administer an IV?”

“Nope, but I'm a fast learner. Tell me what to do.”

Scout and Heavy stood back uncertainly as the two other men performed the tasks set to them. Medic talked Engineer through finding a vein in the back of his hand and fitting the tubing so that it was free of air bubbles. When the drip was set up, and Medic's feet were propped several inches higher than his chest, he finally stopped fussing and simply lay back in defeat.

“Scout, Heavy, why don't you fellas go find the rest of the team and tell 'em what's goin' on. Get everybody a flashlight, tell 'em to meet down here so we can start making ourselves a plan,” Engineer said, and held up a hand when they looked ready to protest. “With that Spy pokin' around it's safer for you boys to go together. Me an' Spy will stay here and see to the Doc and watch each other's backs, alright? Now get goin'. And take care of yourselves. No power means no Respawn, and I'd rather not test the system's time limits the hard way, if you take my meaning.”

There was a moment of silence as all of them let that information sink in. Heavy and Scout looked at each other. Heavy looked at Medic, and then at Spy. Spy looked quickly away.

“Will bring team back,” the Russian rumbled, nudging Scout out the door in front of him. They closed the door behind them. The energy of the room became slightly less tense.

But Medic was still holding Spy's hand.

“So,” Engineer said, after a moment, and Spy braced himself. “I take it you two gentlemen are pretty happy together?”

Medic's head shot up from the pillows.

“ _Was?_ What are you talking about? What makes you think we are-”

He followed Engineer's eyeline to where their hands were joined at the edge of the bed and stared.

“Oh.”

Engineer chuckled.

“I could be wrong, but you seemed pretty together when he was kissin' all over your face out there.”

“Oh,” Medic said again, still staring at their hands. Spy's grip had tightened considerably, knuckles white and standing out all the more against the dark blood still on his hands.

“Say what you have to say,” Spy said tightly. Engineer raised his eyebrows.

“I wasn't plannin' on sayin' anything.”

“Weren't you?”

The Engineer gave him a leveling look.

“No, Spy, I wasn't. And so long as you're both happy, I don't see why anything should need to be said. Do you?”

Spy blinked, several times, in quick succession.

“ _Non._ I do not. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Doc, is there anything else you need?”

“A glass of water would be nice,” Medic said weakly. “Or perhaps something stronger.”

“One water, comin' right up.”

“There's a glass by the sink,” Spy told him, as he ducked into the little bathroom. For a moment there was only the sound of running water. Spy looked at Medic out of the corner of his eye. Medic was still staring at their hands. He let go abruptly when Engineer returned, and took the glass he was offered. As he drank, Spy examined the head wound that had not completely healed in its time under the Medigun.

“Does that hurt?” he asked, nodding at it when Medic had drained the glass and held it out to be refilled.

“ _Ja._ It is quite painful. But I believe any brain damage I may have sustained has mostly been averted, thanks to Medigun. And so long as I do not lose anymore blood I believe I will be alright.”

He hesitated.

“Some morphine would be appreciated.”

“Would you like me to get it now?”

Medic flashed him a small, grateful smile as Engineer handed him his second glass of water.

“Yes, _bitte._ I keep the painkillers in my desk, where Sniper wouldn't be able to find them.”

Spy raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing. He stood slowly, letting Engineer take his place by Medic's side and making sure the doctor had everything he needed. With a quick look back, Spy slipped out into the infirmary.

He found the morphine quickly enough, along with several bottles of aspirin and other minor painkillers all tucked into the very back of a drawer. While he stood there, he also noticed the files that he had brought the night before, half piled together but still very much out in the open. Spy stuffed them hastily into the top drawer. He hoped that no one else had seen them. Their contents would be damning in the best of circumstances, but without context to explain them... Spy shuddered to think what some team members would make of such information, false or otherwise.

He returned to Medic with the little vial of morphine and a clean syringe, and had to avert his eyes as the doctor prepared it for himself. Spy had been clean for nearly twenty years, but that didn't make it any easier. Once an addict, always an addict. One only needed to calculate his cigarette expenditures to see that. And when Medic slowly closed his eyes and relaxed back into the pillows with a contented sigh, Spy had to bite his own tongue to distract from the lingering itch at the back of his mind.

“Doc?” a voice called from outside.

“In here, Demo!” Engie called, getting up to open the door. One by one, the faces of their teammates appeared in the doorway. Demo's one eye widened as he took in the state the doctor was in, and Soldier peered curiously out from beneath the brim of his helmet. Sniper wasn't wearing his hat or his glasses, and his expression was somewhere between confusion and anger.

“The lad said we've got a Spy in the base,” Demo said, glancing at Spy. “And I'm guessin' he didn't mean you.”

“There is a very high chance the BLU Spy is still here,” Medic said before anyone else could answer, sitting up slowly. “Unless he has decided to try and cross the field to his own base in this weather. I find that unlikely. He is still here, and he has disabled the power. We _must_ find him before morning, or before the storm ends. He _must_ be found.”

Medic made to get to his feet and was met with the sounds of the entire team protesting this decision.

“ _Docteur,_ please,” Spy said, laying a hand on Medic's chest and trying to gently push him back into the bed.

“We've been over this, Doc,” Engie added, pulling him arm away before Medic could use him for leverage. “You're not goin' anywhere. The man almost killed you, and the last thing you need to be doin' is-”

“He'll wish that he'd killed me when I get my hands on him,” Medic snarled. He latched on to Spy's arm and used it to haul himself to his feet, standing tall and straight. In the glow of the candlelight, there was a terrible expression on his face.

No one stopped him when he strode purposefully, if a bit unsteadily, out of his bedroom and out into the infirmary.

They followed cautiously behind him, all of them spreading out to watch as he leaned heavily on his desk for support, no one daring to get too close. After a moment, he straightened up and turned around. There was a fire in his eyes that Spy recognised all too well. The weakness of moment's ago was almost gone. This was the Medic he had come to know in battle. The man with blood on his teeth and strength in his limbs. A determined passion that set him apart as man not to be underestimated or taken lightly. He cleared his throat.

“We need a plan. We will need to spread out, widen the search area until he has nowhere left to hide. I suggest working in pairs or groups of three, no one must be left alone. Demoman, go with the Engineer to the basement and try to get the power back on. Without power, there is no guarantee that Respawn will be able to pick us up should we fall, and no way to contact anyone outside of this base. Be prepared to defend yourself, but do not take any unnecessary risks. This man is a threat, but he is most dangerous when his enemies are alone or caught unawares. Do not leave yourselves open. I believe if we fan out from this room we should be able to cover the entire base in an hour or two, if we are thorough. Seal the doors behind you. Leave no path for him to escape, _verstanden?”_

The team nodded in agreement. Soldier turned his head and had a quick look around.

“Where's Pyro?”

 

* * *

 

They moved as a group, sticking close to one another as they worked through the base, sealing as many exits as they could. They were one teammate short.

Medic was moving as quickly as could, one arm slung heavily over Spy's shoulders. Spy could see Scout glancing them out of the corner of of his eye, gnawing on his bottom lip, clearly uncertain if he should be the one to say anything. So far the boy had remained quiet, for which Spy was thankful. This was not the time.

Heavy had remained quiet as well. His face was impassive, eyes straight forward, but he hung well back from Spy and the doctor. Spy wanted to kick himself. He should have seen it.  _Medic_ should have seen it, or if he had he should have said something. 

He glanced sidelong at the giant, at his towering frame and broad chest, thick, muscular arms, his chiseled features, and wondered if there was a  _reason_ Medic had never said anything about this to him.

No. This was not the time for jealousy.

They had a Spy to catch.

As they drew nearer to the front of the building, guided only by flashlights and their memory maps of the building, Heavy held up his hand for them to pause.

“What is noise?” he whispered. Everyone listened.

Ahead, something was moving. There was a crunching sound, like splintering wood, and then a dull  _thunk._ Footsteps. Heavy gave the signal, and very carefully the team moved around the corner and into the entrance hall.

Pyro was in the middle of the room, surrounded by the wreckage of most of the little wooden tables and several of the good armchairs. The splintering sound must have come from the broken chair leg they held in their hand, placing it with care in the giant pile of wood and materials in the fireplace. They were humming under their breath, happy as they worked. On the floor nearby were two very large cans of gasoline. Their fire axe was embedded in the stuffing of the worn old sofa.

“Pyro?” Heavy called firmly, and the firebug's head whipped around. They waved excitedly, then went back to work.

“You are making fire?” Heavy tried again. Pyro made a noise of affirmation and picked up one of the gas cans, sprinkling its contents liberally over the pile of wood. Spy took a step back, pulling Medic with him as the arsonist lit a match and dropped it into the fireplace. The wood blazed to life. Pyro squealed happily.

“This could be a trap,” Soldier grunted, hefting the shotgun he had brought with him despite Medic's protests. “We don't know if that Pyro's the real one. He could be in cahoots with the enemy.”

“I dunno, it looks like Pyro to me,” Scout said, though there was uncertainty in his tone.

“That's the point of a _Spy,_ private,” Soldier snapped, taking a step forward. Pyro turned around. The giggling stopped.

“Identify yourself!” Soldier said loudly. Pyro tilted their head to the side. They took a step toward the group. Soldier pumped his shotgun.

“Careful, Soldier,” Heavy said, but even he was looking between the two with unease. Pyro took another step forward. “Pyro, calm down. Do not move.”

“He's the Spy,” Soldier growled.

Pyro reached for their axe.

Spy reacted instinctively, covering Medic and pushing him back as the gun went off. Whoever the buckshot hit screamed. Heavy and Scout both yelled at the same time, and there was a thick, wet crunch of bone being crushed.

And then there was quiet.

Spy gave Medic a quick once over, then followed the doctor's eyeline over his shoulder, turning slowly to find what everybody was staring at.

Pyro stood in front of the fire, both feet planted firmly, one hand thrown out gracefully behind them for balance. They were unharmed. In front of them, the shotgun clutched tightly in one hand, was Soldier. With the head of Pyro's axe buried in his chest.

Only he wasn't Soldier.

“Bloody Spy!” Sniper shouted, breaking the silence as he cradled his arm. The sleeve of his shirt was in tatters, dark with blood. His shoulder seemed to have taken the brunt of the buckshot. The BLU Spy let out a sickening gurgle and sank to his knees. Medic pushed past Spy and hurried to his side.

“Quickly,” he hissed, prizing the gun from the man's grasp and sliding it across the floor. He held the man's hands to stop him from pulling the axe from his chest. “We must get him to the infirmary, _schnell!”_

“He's the fuckin' Spy!” Scout said incredulously. Medic snarled something in German.

“I need him alive,” the doctor said, snapping his fingers in Heavy's direction. “Carry him, quickly, back downstairs so I can operate.”

“He shot me!” Sniper protested as Heavy hurried over and lifted the wounded Spy into his arms. Medic hauled himself to his feet with difficulty.

“ _Ja,_ and I will see to it later! I need this man alive for questioning, I need to know what he's done with my- with what he stole. Move, Heavy! Scout, with me, _bitte._ Spy?”

Spy looked expectantly at Medic as Scout hurried to the doctor's side, taking his place as Medic's support. Medic swallowed.

“There is a false bottom to the second drawer in the dresser. Inside you will find a communication device. The passcode is the year of my birth. Go, quickly, and contact Miss Pauling. Tell her the nest is sacked. It is very important you use those words exactly, do you understand? _The nest is sacked._ Go, now! I will be there shortly.”

Spy nodded and dashed after Heavy, quickly passing the man in the hall. He didn't spare the BLU Spy a glance as he sped past them, throwing open the doors to the infirmary and making a beeline for their bedroom. He yanked open the specified drawer and grabbed handfuls of socks and undershirts, tossing them carelessly to the floor until he found what he was looking for. A small hole, large enough to slip a finger into and pull. The thin wooden bottom came away, revealing a small compartment.

Inside, there was a small black case made of some kind of metal, a tarnished gold locket, and a passport. Spy grabbed the case and slammed the drawer shut.

He wasn't familiar with this technology, but it seemed simple enough. The case flipped open on a hinge. Inside of it there was a small screen, an even smaller speaker, and a series of buttons. After a moment's hesitation, Spy carefully typed into the number pad and watched the numbers appear on the screen.

_1-8-5-4._

He fidgeted while the dial tone played.

“Hello?” said a woman's voice, faintly. Spy held the device up to his ear.

“Miss Pauling?” he said loudly. There was silence on the line.

“Who is this?” the voice said, louder by his ear, and it was definitely Miss Pauling. “Identify yourself. How did you get this number?”

“This is the Spy. The RED Spy,” he added quickly. “The Medic is injured, he told how to reach you. I am supposed to tell you-”

“Injured?” she said shrilly. “What do you mean injured, what the hell is going-”

“He says _“the nest is sacked.”_ ”

Spy waited anxiously for a reply. He listened for breathing.

“Miss Pauling?” he said after a moment.

“I'm on my way.”

The line went dead.

Spy carefully folded the little device and slipped it into his pocket. He took a deep breath.

When he stepped out into the infirmary, it was a scene of chaos.

The BLU Spy was on the operating table, bleeding profusely, gurgling weakly around the blood in his mouth. Heavy stood by, staring. Beside him was Sniper, frowning and holding a wad of blood soaked bandages to his shoulder. Medic was barking orders to Scout, who was doing his best to find the items the doctor asked for and hand them to him. Medic had blood up to his elbows, and Pyro was shifting nervously from foot to foot as they watched the proceedings, holding the flashlight so that Medic could see what he was doing. 

The handle of the axe heaved with every desperate breath the Spy was taking. He kept trying to lift his hands, to grasp the thing and pull it out of him, only for Medic to round on him and shout at him until he let his hands drop. Medic was trying to staunch the bleeding, but was having difficulty in his weakened state. Scouts hands were shaking so badly he was dropping nearly everything he got a hold on. Everyone was pale and frantic and wide-eyed, doing as best they could. But it wasn't enough.

Spy watched as the BLU Spy gave one last shuddering, choking gasp, and went limp. Medic felt quickly for a pulse.

His head fell forward.

For a few minutes, the only sound in the room was that of Pyro's respirator.

“Miss Pauling says she is on her way,” Spy said, when he could stand the silence no longer. Slowly, Medic lifted his eyes and nodded.

Overhead, the lights flickered on.

 


	25. ...Will Be Brought To The Light

The base was quiet.

It had been quiet for hours. Nobody was talking. Nobody could think of anything to say. They were all still reeling.

The BLU Spy was dead.

He had not Respawned. His body hadn't disappeared and rematerialized back in the BLU base, alive and safe and free to complete his mission. It had been moved to a gurney. Covered with a sheet and wheeled into a corner until they could decide was to do with it.

Soldier was found, alive but unconscious in a bathroom on the far end of the base. It was taking him a while to shake whatever had been used to knock him out, his speech slurred and more subdued than usual. He, along with the Engineer and Demoman, had been filled in on the situation when they met up with everyone in the infirmary. It felt strange to repeat the events that had taken place only minutes before. They weren't real yet. They didn't feel real, anyhow.

Pyro had to be consoled after their axe was pried from the Spy's chest. Spy didn't know if they actually understood what they had done or were simply responding to the energy in the room. They mumbled apologies and muffled questions, and Medic said he wasn't angry with them, that they had only done what they thought was best. And they had, arguably, saved Sniper's life. The Australian thanked them gruffly as the buckshot was picked from his shoulder, praising their quick reaction time as the Medigun went to work on the ruined flesh of his arm. The arsonist had taken to clinging to the Engineer's arm for comfort. Spy found himself hoping it helped.

Healing Sniper had taken the last of Medic's strength.

The doctor was clearly exhausted, but it still took several minutes of coaxing to get him to return to his room and rest. Spy felt the stares on his back as he helped Medic to his room – to _their_ room – and closed the door behind them. He heard the whispers through the door – or perhaps he only imagined hearing them – as he aided Medic in stripping off his bloodstained clothes, pulling a clean undershirt over the doctor's head, resisting the urge to climb into bed behind him and wrap himself around the man's body. He'd already embarrassed them both enough for one day. And with the whole team only a room away, likely to barge in at any moment, it wasn't appropriate.

So he sat. He pulled the chair that Medic kept by the closet over to the side of the bed, and he sat and he watched over the doctor as he slept.

Medic looked old. He looked like a greying old man, when only hours ago he had been radiant and fierce, a towering figure, with love and life and a battle cry perched on his lips.

Now he looked... _small._

In the morning, his hair had been black. It was greying now, nearly white at the temples when he turned his head. Spy saw the way he'd been squinting, struggling to see without his glasses. Medic's eyes were closed now. He was asleep, mouth open slightly, thin skin clinging to his high cheeks, making them appear hollow and gaunt. His fingers were twined with Spy's own once more. The veins in the back of his hand stood out, making them look gnarled and arthritic.

Seeing him like this, shriveled and worn down, was almost too much for Spy. He couldn't imagine what Medic was feeling.

Spy looked at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter past three in the morning. None of them had slept, and he was starting to feel it. He'd stayed up late the night before, after all, and their little lie in that morning hadn't really made up for it. He needed coffee.

Medic would be alright on his own, for a few minutes, Spy reasoned as he quietly got to his feet and crept out of the room.

His teammates looked up at him as he closed the door behind him. Pyro was sitting on the floor with Soldier, attempting to play patty-cake by moving the other man's hands for him. Heavy was reading in the corner. Spy avoided eye contact with all of them and made straight for the kitchens.

Scout and Demo were in the mess hall fighting over who got what midnight snack. They quieted down as he approached, long enough to inform him that Engie had returned to the basement with Sniper in order to try and get the rest of the systems back on. They went back to arguing when they realised he wasn't going to speak to them. Thankfully, there was already a fresh pot of coffee brewing. He didn't have to wait long.

When he returned, Medic was no longer alone.

Heavy was sitting by the doctor's beside, in Spy's chair, looking down at the sleeping man. His hand rested atop the sheet near Medic's own, but not close enough to touch. He looked up with a start when the door opened.

Spy stood in the doorway for a moment, a cup of coffee in one hand, and he and the giant stared at each other. Heavy looked away first. He looked back to Medic, and Spy stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“You are with Doktor?” the giant asked without looking at him, his voice rumbling like a distant thunder across the room. Spy swallowed.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Not long. A few months.”

Heavy nodded, little more than a thoughtful dip of the head. Spy lingered by the doorway, unsure what else to do. He leaned back, sipping his coffee, ignoring the fact that it was far too hot in a bid to appear casual. Unaffected. He was too tense to pull it off.

“He is happy with you?”

Heavy's question caught Spy off guard. He snorted into his drink, covering his mouth to keep from coughing and waking Medic up.

“I... I think so,” he said weakly, after collecting himself. “I _hope_ so.”

Heavy blinked at him dispassionately, then looked back to Medic. Spy stared at the gap between their fingers. Barely more than an inch, but he knew it must have felt like an ocean.

“He was first person to speak to me,” the giant rumbled, softly, not taking his eyes off of Medic's sleeping face. “The others saw me and were afraid, or heard accent and think I am something I am not. Doktor was not afraid. Shook my hand, called me _Kamerad._ Laughed when I looked angry. Was first friend I made in this country. First friend I make in... very long time.”

Spy felt a wave of guilt wash over him.

There had been rumours about Heavy and Medic, long before he ever got involved. And perhaps if he _hadn't_ gotten involved, hadn't put his own selfish curiosity in the way of professional disinterest, something may have come of it. Maybe it would have been Heavy sitting by the doctor's bedside, holding his hand, holding him in the night. Keeping his secrets. Perhaps Heavy would have done a better job of keeping him safe.

Spy's stomach did a funny little flip. He took another sip of coffee.

“I think that it is enough,” Heavy sighed. “Maybe not as much as could have been... but it is enough.”

Spy fought back as a flinch as the giant got to his feet, filling the room with his height, his weight, the strengths of his arms. How towered over Spy, and there was a hardness in his eyes. He laid a massive hand on Spy's shoulder.

“Take care of him,” was all Heavy said. And then he was gone. Slipping soundlessly out into the infirmary, closing the door behind him and leaving Spy alone with his coffee.

Spy moved slowly, lowering himself into the chair by the bed. It was still warm from the heat of Heavy's body. There was an indent in the sheets, right next to Medic's hand. Spy stared at it. For a man who made a living out of pretending to be someone else, he'd never been this uncomfortable with the sensation of being in someone else's place.

“He never said anything.”

Spy jumped so badly he sloshed coffee onto his pantleg.

Medic's eyes were open now, looking at the door with furrowed brows. He must have been awake the entire time. Spy blinked at him.

“You didn't know?”

Medic shook his head.

“ _Nein._ I never even suspected...”

He frowned, and Spy saw his throat work as he swallowed. He looked at the indent where Heavy's hand had been, and then at Spy. Medic sighed.

“In another life, perhaps,” he said, and his fingers found their way to twine with Spy's own. Slowly, he pulled their hands towards his face, and pressed his lips to the back of Spy's palm. “You were right. I am happy, the way things are. With you.”

Spy snorted.

“What happened to “no romance?”” he teased, but his skin tingled where Medic had kissed him. Medic smiled.

“The same thing that's happened to everything else, I suppose. What's the phrase, to hell in a bucket?”

“Hand-basket.”

“ _Danke._ To hell in a hand-basket. What an excellent visual.”

Spy laughed.

He was leaning in for a proper kiss when the door banged open.

“Oh,” Miss Pauling said.

“You're here,” Medic said, sitting up on his elbows, looking sheepish.

“Spy said you were hurt,” she said, stepping into the room. Engineer followed her, closing the door more gently than it had been opened. “And now I understand why you had my number in the first place. What's the situation?”

“I was attacked,” Medic explained, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed while Spy stood, shuffling to make room for the Engineer in the small room, and allowing Miss Pauling to take his seat. She shoved her bag into his hands and pressed her palm to Medic's forehead, taking in his gaunt appearance and greying hair. Her brows pinched together in worry. When she tried to turn his face from side to side, Medic took her hand between both his own. “It's alright, Laura. I'm alright.”

Something clicked in Spy's brain.

“Laura?” he said, and Miss Pauling looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You- you are his-?”

“Granddaughter,” she said, nodding curtly, then looked back at Medic. “You told him?”

“ _Ja._ Everything.”

She turned to the Engineer.

“And you?”

“I know enough,” he said, inclining his head. “Didn't know the two of you were related, and I can't say I'm not surprised, but everything else is old news. Just what my Daddy told me, and the old stories we could sometimes pry outta Grandad. My family's been with the company just as long as you have, I believe.”

“Longer,” Medic said, smiling slightly. “Radigan was hired well before I was. It has been good to work with his descendants over the years.”

“Been a pleasure workin' with you, too, Doctor.”

Miss Pauling gave a long suffering sigh.

“You realise this is all supposed to be highly classified?”

“The Engineer has the proper security clearance,” Medic said evenly. “And Spy has already been told everything, so it's too late to worry about that now.

“Do you have any idea how much paperwork I'm going to have to do because of this?”

“I wanted him to know.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Fine. Okay. You're right, it's done, no use worrying about it now. We have bigger things to deal with. Tell me everything that happened, as quickly and in as few words as you can.”

They listened in silence as Medic recounted his attack, and exactly what it was that the BLU Spy had stolen from him. Spy hadn't heard this before. He knew that Medic had sustained a head wound and begun aging rapidly, but he assumed the BLU Spy had somehow counteracted the serum or caused it to fail. The truth was all the more troubling.

They took turns filling in Pyro's actions and the death of the BLU Spy. Miss Pauling – _Laura;_ so strange to think of her having a first name – said that Engineer had shown her the body before she came in. The fact that he hadn't Respawned even after the systems had been restored was concerning, but ultimately not a bad thing. It would have been worse if he'd gotten away, back to his masters with or without Medic's blood. At least now they knew he would be no more threat to them.

Miss Pauling listened in silence, her lips pressing together into a steadily thinner white line by the time they were finished.

“Does anyone else know what he took or why?” she asked Medic, who shook his head.

“I've told no one but Spy. And I suspect Engineer has figured it out as well by now.”

“Which is still two people too many-”

“Laura...”

“-but that's okay, because we can still fix this. Have you been able to contact the Administrator?”

“Comms are still down, what with the storm,” Engie said. She frowned.

“That's odd. Even the emergency channels?”

“Everything. I've been workin' on it, but no luck.”

“Hm,” she said thoughtfully, holding out her hand for her bag. Spy gave it to her. She pulled out the same flat little pad he'd seen her carrying before and tapped a few commands into the front of it, though he could see no discernible buttons. Her frown became more pronounced. “There must be a jammer somewhere, because I can't get a signal either. That could be a problem. She needs to know what's going on, that the Manns have made a move behind her back. If they've got one agent, they could have more.”

“You think they're working together?” Medic asked, looking unconvinced. Miss Pauling waved her hand dismissively.

“Doesn't matter if they're cooperating directly. Whatever one of them does, the other has to do so they can argue over who came up with it first. You should hear some of the things they bicker over.”

“Oh, I have, believe me,” Medic snorted. _“Kinder._ But I agree. Helen should be told. At the very least, she should be interested to know that she needs a replacement Spy.”

“We've got plenty of those lined up,” Miss Pauling said, then glanced at Spy. “Um. No offense.”

“None taken,” he said smoothly. She flashed him a small smile.

“Okay, so the most immediate threat has been neutralized, your condition is stable, but we still don't know if the BLU Spy was able to complete his mission, or how he was able to get inside the base during ceasefire in this weather. He may have been hiding out here for hours, or days, waiting for the opportunity to get you alone. This base is compromised. You can't stay here.”

Medic sighed heavily, as though he'd been dreading that response.

“We shouldn't leave without contacting Helen,” he said, scooting forward to let his feet touch the floor. “If we fall off the grid and she is unable to get in touch with us, she'll assume the worst and send her men after us.”

“Why would she send agents after you if she thinks you're dead?” Engie asked. Medic snorted.

“You misunderstand. To her, the worst case scenario is that I've run off again without telling her where I'm going. My death wouldn't even cross her mind.”

“We can contact her later,” Miss Pauling said, stuffing her tablet back into her bag. “Right now, the priority is keeping you safe. I have an exit set up, just tell me what you need packed and we can be gone before anything else happens.”

There was a soft knock at the door.

“Come in!” Medic and Spy called in unison. The door opened enough for Scout to stick his head through.

“Uh, guys – oh hey, Miss Pauling – me and Demo just got back from the kitchen. Soldier's still out of it and Pyro ain't talkin'. What'd you guys do with the body?”

Spy frowned.

“We haven't done anything with it.”

“Oh. Really? 'Cause I'm pretty sure somethin's been done to it.”

“Scout, what are you talking about?” Miss Pauling asked, turning fully in her chair. Scout rubbed the back of his head.

“Well, if you guys didn't move it or nothin', I don't want anybody to freak out anything but-”

“Scout. What happened to the body.”

“Nothin', I mean... it ain't _there.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey quick note before anybody jumps down my throat
> 
> i actually do ship Medic/Pauling? i ship a lot of things. i multiship. i can also compartmentalize. the fact that they're related only applies to the canon of this story in this universe, so i don't want anybody to freak out if i ever wind up writing something shippy for them in the future. this is very much an isolated incident. 
> 
> just wanted to put that out there :)


	26. Body of Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know of at least three people who are going to yell at me for this and i am fully prepared

“Dead Ringer,” Spy spat, glaring down at the little pocketwatch in his hand. “It's been modified.”

“This is bad, right?” Scout said, hovering over Laura's shoulder. “'Cause, I mean, this looks really bad. The Dead Ringer is that thing you use to fake your death, yeah? So does that mean he's alive? Walkin' around and shit?”

“It would appear so,” Medic said, and his voice sounded weary even to his own ears. He was leaning heavily on the Engineer for support. Just the short walk from his room to out in the lab had sapped what little strength he'd managed to accumulate. And coming out to find the sheet covering the BLU Spy's body thrown to the side and the body itself nowhere in sight left a cold feeling in his gut.

Laura's expression was hard and guarded, staring at the bloodstained gurney intensely. Medic knew that look. She wasn't listening. She was planning.

“Nobody saw anything?” Engie asked, peering sternly at Pyro and Heavy from behind his goggles. Everybody shook their heads. Soldier's helmet wobbled unsteadily. There was a moment of tense silence.

“Spy check!” Demo shouted, and punched Sniper soundly in the arm.

The Australian's shout of pain was drowned out by everybody turning to their neighbor and hitting them with similar results. Scout hit Pyro, Pyro hit Heavy, Heavy hit Soldier, and Soldier took a measly, off-kilter swing at Spy. Sniper raised his fist in Medic's direction, then caught sight of Medic's warning glare and thought better of it. Medic knew who he was. He was also fairly sure that the Engineer, who he was clinging to and who was nearly a head shorter than him, was also not the Spy.

“We need to go,” Laura said. Her voice was not especially loud, but her tone was enough to make everyone else fall silent. Scout's mouth remained open, but no more sound came out of it. _“Now.”_

“Go where?” Heavy asked, frowning. “There is storm-”

“The storm isn't an issue,” she said firmly. “And you're all staying here anywhere. Medic and I will be the only ones-”

“And Spy,” Medic interjected. She glared at him.

“ _And Spy,_ will be the only ones leaving. Medic's safety is the priority here.”

“Is anybody going to explain what the hell's going on?” Sniper asked, still rubbing his arm. “First the Doc gets the tar beat out of him, then you show up, now you're leaving again and taking him with. Why's he so important?”

“That's classified,” she said crisply, and raised her voice when the muttering started. “I'm sorry, but you're all just going to have to accept that for now, okay?”

Medic watched his teammate's grumbling grow quieter, and their looks of anger turn to frustrated defeat while being stared by the little woman in front of them. Six grown adults, cowed into silence with a glare. He was so proud of her.

“Doctor,” Laura said, addressing him formally, her eyes flicking over his slumped posture and general state of dishevelment. “Go and gather your things. Everything you need, everything you can carry. Engineer, you go with him. Spy, you're going to help me pack, because I don't know how long we'll be gone. Everyone else, I want you to set up a patrol schedule. Fortify this room. Don't leave it unless you have to. Stay together, people. Move out!”

 

* * *

 

Engineer let out a low whistle.

“Well, ain't that something...”

Medic's lab was much as he'd left it. Papers and notations sprawled all over the place, supplies sitting out in the open, everything in a state of disarray. Medic shot a furtive glance at the soiled blanket piled on the cot he and Spy had spent the previous night on, but it appeared to be the only thing in the room that didn't have Engie's attention. The Texan's focus was drawn to the pages and pages of chemical formulas pinned to every available surface, and the elaborate filtration system erected on the desk.

“You sure have been busy, Doc,” he said, slowly spinning in place while Medic moved past him.

“You have no idea,” Medic muttered. He checked the pressure gauge to the containment apparatus, making sure everything was as it should be. The room appeared untouched. He had made it into his own little den, more than a workshop but less than a bedroom. A hideout away from the rest of the team, where he could take refuge in the silence and let his thoughts run wild.

Decades of notes filled the many journals and binders stacked around the floor. His life, his work, his lowest moments and highest points were all contained in their pages. A pity that so many of them would have to be burned.

He told the Engineer what to save and what to leave behind. Medic was in no condition to do much heavy lifting, especially all the trouble they'd gone through getting him down the stairs. They'd brought several bags with them, and the very least he could carry one of them on his back. Laura was right. There was no telling when they'd be back. It was better to be overcautious than not cautious enough and let valuable information fall into the hands of the enemy.

“I will need your help to lift this,” Medic said, fiddling with the containment valves of the filtration system. “As well as to keep it steady. It cannot be shaken around to much, _und Gott bewahre_ we drop it.”

“Ah, hell,” Engineer grunted, trying to heave the container into his arms. “What's in here, Doc?”

“My life's work.”

“Oh? That all?” He hooked his fingers around the bottom rim, getting a good grip while Medic watched anxiously. He cursed his own weakness. This task, this burden, should be left to no one but him.

“So I take it this stuff is what's been keepin' you alive all these years?” Engie asked, and Medic's head snapped up.

“ _Ja._ Along with good eating and a healthy lifestyle,” he deadpanned. Engie snorted.

“If you say so, Doc.”

 

* * *

 

Getting back up the stairs with all of his research was even more of an ordeal than getting down them had been. It took more time than they had. Spy and Miss Pauling were waiting for them in the common room when they returned.

Spy was noticeably paler than he'd been when Medic last saw him. Most likely Laura had threatened him. Unnecessary, but the gesture was appreciated. Medic gave him a reassuring smile when their eyes met, and Spy returned it tightly.

“Y'all ready?” Engineer asked, looking over the light suitcases the others were carrying. Laura nodded curtly, glancing at her watch.

“We're behind schedule. Sniper and Scout took the first patrol, and the base has been quiet, but I don't trust it. We needed to be gone ten minutes ago.”

“Apologies,” Medic said, still breathing heavily from his journey up the stairs. “You said you have an exit. How long til it gets here?”

“It's already here. We can go any time. Do you have everything?”

Everybody did a quick once-over of their bags, and nodded. She set off at a brisk pace down the hall.

“This way,” she called over her shoulder. Spy was the only one of them who didn't look baffled.

She led them back the way they'd come, through the door labeled “Administrative Access Only.” They followed her dutifully into the control room, all squished into the small space with all their luggage. It was strange to see everything powered down. The base was only running on auxiliary power, enough to keep on the lights and heat and basic Respawn functions. But with comms down, the whole room was dark. The screens and control panel showed no signs of life.

Laura dropped her bag heavily to the floor and crouched down, yanking open a panel of the wall and sticking both arms inside. Grunting, she pulled out what Medic immediately recognised as a teleporter and placed it carefully on the floor in front of them. She pressed a small switch on the side and sat back. As the machine whirred to life in a haze of purple light, Engineer's jaw dropped.

“Is- is that-”

“Our exit,” Laura said, swiping a lock of dark hair behind her ear. She rummaged around in her bag and pulled out the tablet she'd used before. Australian technology, unless Medic was mistaken. A thin black cord connected the two devices. She tapped a few commands on the pad's surface.

“It's reprogammable?” Spy asked with interest, peering over her shoulder. She nodded. The teleporter stuttered for a moment, then came back to full power. She stood up.

“Spy, you first.”

Spy looked at her in surprise.

“Me? Shouldn't Medic-”

“You. Go on, we don't have all day.”

Spy looked over at Medic, an expression of concern on his thin features, but Medic only returned the look with a reassuring nod. Laura knew what she was doing. With a steadying breath, Spy squared his shoulders and stepped onto the platform.

As soon he disappeared, Laura rounded on the Engineer.

“Now you.”

He looked at her,

“Beg pardon?”

From her bag, she withdrew a handgun. Heavy caliber, sleek and black, with a strange silver attachment near the chamber. Medic automatically took a step back.

“Step on the teleporter, Mr. Conagher.”

“Laura, what are you doing?” Medic hissed, shifting his stance to adjust for the weariness in his shoulders. Her aim was precise and steady. Her gaze did not waver.

“He knows too much,” she said simply. “He's been involved in this every step of the way. He can't stay. Step on the teleporter.”

“Now I don't want any trouble,” Engineer said uncertainly. “If the lady wants me to come with, I will, but if you're sending me off to my death without so much as a by-your-leave I'd at least like a bit of warning.”

“You're not going to die,” Laura said, and cocked the hammer back. “So long as you do what I tell you and step onto the teleporter. _Now.”_

The Engineer looked between the barrel of the modified gun – he knew what it did, he must know – and the spinning purple platform at his feet. Medic watched as he strengthened his grip on the container and took a step forward.

“You didn't have to threaten him like that,” Medic said quietly, when the man was gone. Laura lowered her weapon immediately. She looked mildly abashed, but not apologetic. It was an expression he knew well on her face, and understood well enough to know she got what she wanted and thought she had to do it.

“We're running out of time,” she said, sidestepping to close some of the distance between them. She laid her hand on his arm. “Are you alright? You look...”

“Old?” he offered. She frowned, but nodded. Medic sighed. “Shall I go next or will you?”

“You first,” she said, stepping back again. Her lips pursed together in a suppressed smile. “Besides, I'm sure Spy is missing you by now.”

Medic was not a man accustomed to blushing. He wasn't accustomed to feeling embarrassed about his actions, or the way he was perceived by people. He coughed, to cover the heat he felt rising in his face.

“Don't start,” he said warningly. Her smile simply became less concealed.

“I mean, _Spy._ Of all people.” She shook her head. “At least he's handsome, I suppose.”

Medic glared and stepped onto the teleporter.

He hated these long-range contraptions. Hated how long the journey was, compared to a short hop across the battlefield, and how scrambled he felt afterwards. Spy caught him in his arms as he staggered away from the platform, his legs giving out beneath him. Engineer was doubled over several feet away, one hand on his knee while the other was clapped firmly over his mouth. Medic clung to Spy, glad that he hadn't eaten anything for several hours.

“I've got you,” Spy said softly, though Medic could feel him shaking as well. He pressed his forehead to the crook of Spy's shoulder and worked on steadying his breathing.

Laura materialized behind him. He heard the whir of the teleporter, the sound of heels clacking unsteadily on the tiled floor.

And then gunshots.

Medic whipped around wildly, even as Spy tried to pull him back, eyes wide with worry and confusion. And there stood Laura, swaying slightly, arm raised, smoking gun pointed at the empty air.

The teleporter lay in pieces on the floor.

“What in Sam Hill did you that for?” Engie cried, lurching upright, staring at the remains of the teleporter in horror. Laura stuffed her gun back into her bag.

“So we wouldn't be followed.”

“And just how do you plan on us getting' back?”

“You're the Engineer, aren't you?” she snapped, taking an unsteady step. “And that's the least of our worries right now. Even if we can't be followed, there's nothing to say we can't be tracked. I mean, we should be safe here for now, but-”

She put a hand to her forehead and took a deep breath.

“Wow, I really hate those things...”

“Where are we?” Spy asked, looking around curiously. Medic followed suit, and felt a chill down his spine.

He knew this place. The tiled floors, the mustard-coloured walls. The framed, faded posters and the dried brown stumps of forgotten potted plants. All the windows were boarded over, but bright sunlight still streamed relentlessly through the cracks. And the bullet holes. Of which there were many. The light illuminated the heavy dust that hung in the air. They had materialized on one of the upper floors, it seemed. One of the old common rooms, by the look of it. Magazines were scattered on the floor next to the overturned tables. Empty coffee mugs lay on their sides, their contents long since congealed and dried up. There was the faint smell of rot and decay. Medic sighed.

“This infirmary is this way,” he said, throwing his arm over Spy's shoulder. “Slowly, _bitte._ I'll show you where to go.”

 

* * *

 

This lab was exactly as he'd left it, as well.

His old coat, now moth-ridden and limp, the starch long since gone off of it, still hung on the rack by the door. All his books, all his medical journals and encyclopedias were still stacked exactly where he'd put them. The certificates on the wall had become so faded they might as well have been blank pieces of paper. A human skull sat in a jar on a shelf, the wood beneath it stained and rotted. There was a large crack in the glass. The familiar face that used to smile back at him had long since melted away.

Spy looked around in interest, picking up all the little traces of him as they limped toward the operating table.

“This was an old base?” he asked, as Laura shut the door behind them.

“Yes,” she said. “One of the few to still have power. The fortifications aren't exactly up to snuff, but the Respawn hasn't been decommissioned. If anything goes wrong, it should be alright. For him, at least.”

“Why only for him?”

“Because my neural codes are still stored in the system,” Medic said, pulling the plastic off of the table once they reached it. “Yours aren't. If I die here I'll simply Respawn. The rest of you wouldn't be so lucky. So please try to be careful.”

He flashed Spy a small smile as he sat gingerly on the edge of the operating table. It felt good to sit down. It felt better so see Spy smile back, and place a comforting hand on his knee.

“Are you alright, _Docteur?”_ he asked. Medic waved away his concern.

“I'm fine, I'm alright. Tired. I haven't been this weary in many, many years. I forgot how much I hated it.”

He screwed up his face, tasting bitterness in his mouth as he looked down at his hands. Shriveled and withered as they were, veins sticking out strongly through the thin skin, the sagging flesh of his arms. His knuckles stood out white and bony. Gnarled. An old man's hands. He closed them into tight fists and tucked them into his sides so he wouldn't have to look at them anymore.

“We should get started,” he said firmly, meeting Laura's eyes over Spy's shoulder. She nodded and crossed the room in a few quick strides. There was a panel on the wall, covered in buttons and switches. She flipped all of them.

The machinery in the room coughed to life.

Medic scooted farther back onto the table, lifting his legs to lie back on the padded surface. Spy watched him in confusion.

“What exactly is it we are going to do?”

“I'm going to complete my life's work,” Medic said, gesturing for the Engineer to lift the container he'd hauled with him. Spy looked at the large vessel, then back to Medic. Understanding flashed in his eyes.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Absolutely not. If you're planning to do what I think you are-”

“I'm well past planning, Spy. I have been for several months.”

“You can't do this.”

“I _am_ doing this,” Medic said, with a twinge of annoyance. Didn't he understand? Laura was already helping the bemused Texan with the equipment, wheeling over the ancient cardiac monitor, clearing the worst of the dust off of the surfaces. He turned to the Engineer. “There should be some sterile supplies in that closet, on the middle shelves. If the rats haven't gotten to them.”

Engie, still looking confused, hurried off the direction that he had pointed. Laura looked at them over the rims of her glasses.

“So how long exactly as this been going on between you two?” she asked. Medic rolled his eyes.

“I asked you not to do this.”

“Is it serious?” she pressed, ignoring him completely and directing her attention to Spy. He looked torn.

“You didn't know?” he asked warily. “I would have thought-”

“I asked Helen to cover it up,” Medic interjected, struggling with the buttons of his shirt. His joints ached. “She agreed it would be best if you weren't told. You wouldn't have believed her anyway. And the only proof she had was some extremely unfortunate security footage.”

Laura recoiled in horror.

“Oh, _god,_ no, I didn't need to know that!”

“No, you didn't. So stop prying. And yes, it's serious.”

Spy looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Is it?”

“Well, I thought so,” Medic said, frowning. He struggled to pull his shirt off of his shoulders, and was mildly hurt when Spy did not attempt to help him. “You're here, aren't you?”

“Will somebody please tell me what's goin' on here?”

The Engineer had returned from the closet, his arms full of sterile tubing and packaged bandages, presumably everything that he'd been able to salvage. He was now frowning, his jaw set, looking between the three of them in turn. Medic shifted to face him.

“What is it that you don't understand, _mein Freund?”_

“What's got him so upset, for starters,” the Texan said, nodding in Spy's direction. “Or why you're getting' yourself undressed over there. Or why I'm holdin' all of this and what I'm meant to do with it. Just what are you plannin' to do here, Doc?”

Medic gave him a wry smile.

“I'm going to live forever.”

If Medic were a lesser man, the ringing silence that followed this statement might have made him second guess himself. It might have sounded foolish or crazy, the lofty ambitions of a madman.

But he knew himself too well to believe that.

He knew what he was doing, and he was going to see it through.

“Well, shoot,” Engie said, and his lips slowly curled into a grin that Medic had seen most often on the battlefield. “Why didn't you say so? What do you need my help with?”

Spy's mouth fell open.

“You can't be serious.”

“I'm not the kiddin' sort, Spy. Doc, which of these things is important?”

“I require a nineteen gauge needle and a reasonable length of tubing.”

“Can do.”

“ _Labourer,_ stop. Put that down,” Spy snapped. He fixed his eyes on Medic, who stared him down just as steadily. “Nothing is happening until you tell me _exactly_ what you are doing and what is going to happen to you.”

“We don't have time for this,” Medic bristled. “I have devoted my entire life to this procedure, I don't have to explain myself to you.”

“Don't you?” Spy said, eyes flashing. “You've waited so long, I hardly think it a chore to wait a little longer. We are, after all, _serious,_ are we not?”

Medic hesitated. He could point out that Spy had contested that point the moment it was brought up. Or could focus on the tense set of Spy's broad shoulders, the way his hands were balled into fists at his sides, the flaring of his nostrils. He was angry, yes, but afraid as well. He didn't understand. Knowing everything that he did, he still didn't understand.

“I'm sorry,” he said, and heard Laura drop something behind him. “You're right, I should- I should explain. There is time enough for that. What would you like to know.”

Spy pointed the container Engineer had carried with him.

“What is that?”

“That is roughly 1.3 gallons of purified, liquefied Australium, saline solution, trace amounts of morphine, and several other chemical components. It is a vast quantity of the serum you have seen me administer to myself on multiple occasions.”

“I see. And what are you going to do with that much of it?”

“I am going to suffuse it into my bloodstream in a vast quantity, through a process similar to transfusion.”

Spy's face went very pale. Medic continued before he could recover and interrupt.

“Though rather than replacing blood lost, the serum will instead bond with my cells. All of them, at once. The will become self-sustaining, self-replenishing, self-regenerating.

“Self-regenerating cells, multiplying and repairing themselves-” His features twisted in horror. “Your body will be riddled with tumours!”

“Oh, please.” Medic was almost insulted. “I phased out that particular side effect fifty years ago. Need I remind you that I have been conditioning myself for this, preparing my body and altering my genetic makeup for precisely this moment. What do you think I've been doing with my life? Did you think I was going to spend the rest of my days relying on weekly injections just to keep myself alive? That has never been what this about, Spy. I am not simply prolonging my life for a century or two. I'm not so shortsighted as the Mann brothers. I plan to _live._ For as long and as well as I possibly can.”

“ _Docteur-”_

“Erik.”

Spy blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“You wanted to know my name so badly,” Medic said, as steadily as he could. “If you have so little faith in me that you think I'm about to kill myself, then this might well be the last chance to say it. My name is Erik.”

Spy's mouth opened, then closed, and then opened again. He stared.

Medic took his silence as an opportunity to check was Laura was doing. She was making herself look busy by toying with the cardio monitor, but he could see she wasn't really doing anything. He beckoned her over with a wave of his hand. He shifted, moving his arm out of the way so she could attach the EKG leads to his chest, carefully avoiding Spy's eyes as she did so. The Engineer was silent, preparing the needle to the specifications that Medic had given him before. He affixed one end of the tubing to the little nozzle at the base of the containment vessel, and Medic didn't miss the frown on his face as he did so. When all that was done, and Spy still had not spoken, there was nothing left to do but face him.

“Would you assist me, please,” Medic said, quietly, “in securing my limbs to the table? I fear this will not be a painless procedure. Any thrashing could disrupt the process. And... well, you've seen how I react under similar circumstances.”

“You want me to tie you down,” Spy said flatly. Medic offered a meek smile.

“It will make for an interesting change, at the very least.”

He didn't flinch under his lover's withering, unamused gaze, nor when his granddaughter pinched him hard on the arm. Medic didn't fight as both of his legs and one of his arms was tightly strapped down to the operating table, rendering him even more powerless in his weakened state. He waited, breathing deeply and rhythmically as he listened to his heartbeat even out. He closed his eyes, and opened them again when he felt a gloved hand on his free arm, turning it outward.

“ _Nein,”_ he said, to the startled Engineer. Carefully, he took the needle out of the man's hands. “A normal transfusion will not be sufficient. The rate of transfer must be accelerated, to account for the volume of the solution. I will have to give myself a direct cardiac injection.”

“You're gonna stab yourself in the heart?”

“ _Ja.”_

“Don't.”

Medic looked at Spy. The Frenchman was standing several feet away, having stepped away as soon as his part was done. His eyes were dark, and even through his mask Medic could see the fear on his face.

“Don't do this. _Doct- ..._ Erik. Please.”

Medic was transported back, many years ago, when those words were said to him before. To Ilse, on her deathbed, fighting him with the last of her strength as he tried to save her life.

_Don't do this. Erik, please, don't!_

She knocked the syringe from his hand, shattering the glass against the wall. And he held her, and they wept together. He, because he was going to lose her. She, because he was a stranger to her now. An unchanging fixture in her life, forever absorbed in his own work, in his own self, too busy trying to preserve his life to actually live it.

But that was then. And this was now, and he was tired of being alive. Of working endlessly toward a goal, only to fall short. He was tired of questioning himself and fighting himself and hating himself. He was tired of the endless struggle of it all. And now, in his hand, he held the key to ending all of that. To delivering himself, to make it all  _mean_ something. He had given it up before. Not once, but twice. Set aside his ambitions in grief. Been prepared to let himself fade away, mourning those he couldn't save. Those who did not, or would not, understand. He'd made enough sacrifices for one life time.

And he was prepared to keep making them, for many lives over.

“I have outlived everyone I've ever loved,” Medic said softly, just loud enough to not be drowned out by the beeping of the heart monitor. He lifted his eyes, finding Spy's across the short distance between them. He did not look away. “Perhaps it will be easier this time.”

Medic hefted the needle in his hand and drove it into his chest.

 


	27. Disintegration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to sinuswave, who is amazing and wonderful and is probably going to yell at me when she reads this chapter

Medic was screaming.

It took a few seconds. Nothing had happened right away, it had taken a moment for the serum to reach his heart. There was a beat of silence after the needle went into his chest, and then he had coughed. And now he was screaming, and Spy didn't know what to do.

Miss Pauling and the Engineer had rushed in to secure Medic's free arm – the arm that had done this to himself – before its flailing could do any more harm to the man. It had taken both of them to hold it down, and Engineer had a bloody lip for his trouble.

Medic was screaming.

His mouth was open wide, lips drawn away from his teeth as he howled like a wild animal. Tossing his head back and forth, eyes squeezed tightly shut as he strained against his bonds. His back arched, pulling away from the table, making the straps dig into his arms and legs. His hands were balled into such tight fists that Spy could see blood dripping from his palms from where his nails tore into the skin. White-knuckled, pale and shaking, the blood stood out in shocking crimson.

Medic was screaming.

Spy had been tortured before. He had been beaten and bloodied and reduced to a shell of himself. He had been raped, and burned and shot and flayed, and had a whole host of other torments inflicted upon him. He had been little more than a boy who had already lived through horrors that would make grown men weep. He'd lived through The War. Never in battle, never served in the trenches, but he visited the hospitals often enough. He'd killed countless men. He'd tortured a handful himself. He'd seen horrific wounds, horrific methods of interrogation, horrific and unsanitary conditions in which men were left to rot or waste away. He'd seen the inside of the camps. He'd seen mothers wailing over the bodies of their children. He had seen and heard and done terrible, terrible things.

But never in his life had a heard a person scream like this.

The heart monitor was going crazy, beeping so quickly and loudly, its screeching mingled with the sounds being torn from Medic's throat. Spy couldn't stand it. He couldn't take it, couldn't just stand there and watch, he couldn't fucking bear it.

“ _Don't touch him!”_ Miss Pauling shouted when he lunged forward, intent on yanking that needle from Medic's heart if only to stop the awful sound. Her gun was drawn and pointed at him but there was fear in her eyes and on the delicate lines of her face. Her aim did not waver. Spy could only look helplessly between the barrel and the doctor.

“He's dying,” Spy said. Tried to say. His voice came out as a cracked, weak whisper. He tried again. “He's dying.”

Miss Pauling did not appear to hear him.

The Engineer had stepped back and pulled his goggles up to his forehead, watching the scene in front of him with wide, naked eyes. Spy wanted him to move. Wanted him to do what he could not, reach out lightning-quick and grab the tube feeding poison into Medic's body. It could only be poison. Only something vile and corrupted could make a person's body writhe like that, wasting their air on howls to the heavens.

Medic was red in the face. The screaming was constant. Unending. He did not pause for air, did not inhale, did not let up for a moment. He screamed, and screamed, and  _ screamed. _

Spy wanted to run. He wanted to run out of the room, down the hall, down the stairs, out of the building, run and run until he couldn't hear it anymore. He wanted his eardrums to burst. He wanted to grab the gun from Miss Pauling's hand and put a bullet in Medic's head, or his own. Anything to end this. Anything to make it end. Make it stop.

Miss Pauling stepped to the side, never taking her eyes off of Medic. She reached up, and for a moment Spy thought she meant to rip the tubing away from the spigot on the large, metallic container that housed the vile solution. But she reached for the top of it – the hand not on her gun was shaking now – and flicked a switch. Spy heard it click. He heard the container begin to hum, softly, as though some sort of mechanism was whirring inside of it.

And Medic stopped screaming.

His cries choked off all at once. The sound broke off in his throat, sticking abruptly, though his mouth remained open. The tendons in his neck and shoulders stood out vividly beneath his skin. The muscles in his arms and bare chest strained as his body seemed to pull in on itself, trying to tear itself apart at the seams from the inside out, threatening to snap bone and strip flesh. The heart monitor was still beeping shrilly.

Medic began to shake.

The tremors started in his legs. His thighs shook. His hips bucked upward as his shoulders and head fell back, slamming violently onto the table, the base of the needle still sticking grotesquely out of his chest.

“He's seizing!” Miss Pauling cried, and Spy had never heard her voice so high. She sounded like a child. “Spy, help me! Turn him, please, he needs to be on his side!”

Spy's body moved automatically, reacting to an order. Engineer rushed forward as well, and together they fought the straps they'd worked so hard to get down, pulling Medic's limbs free and rolling him, carefully, so careful, so as not to jostle the implement feeding into him.

“Get something in his mouth,” Engineer grunted, holding Medic's arms tight over his head to keep them out of the way. Miss Pauling grabbed the closest thing suitable, an unopened package of surgical gauze, and stuffed it between Medic's teeth. He bit down on it at once, viciously.

“What did you do?” Spy shouted at her. He wanted to shake her. _What have you done to him?_

“I d- I did what he said, what- what he told me to do,” she said, and her face was bloodless, eyes and wide and wild. “We had a plan, he said to- after five minutes, to push the-”

Medic's thrashing intensified as the seizures wracked his body. He was silent now. Absolutely silent, and Spy hated it just as much as he hated the screams. The doctor's head reared back and caught him in the jaw, rattling his teeth. His foot lashed out, kicking the tray by the end of the table and spilling surgical instruments all over the floor.

“Get his legs, dammit,” Engineer snapped, struggling to keep his hold on Medic's wrists. Miss Pauling jolted into action, wrapping both arms around Medic's calves, trying to hold him in place with the weight of her body.

Spy's arms were around Medic's middle, holding him against his chest as he shook.

He could feel Medic's heart pounding rapid-fire against his ribs, as well as hear it in the high, shrill beeps of the EKG machine. Medic was hot. He was burning up. The heat coming off of him, off of his skin, was even more terrible than it was on their first night together. That one foolish, frantic blur of a night, of lust and fear and equal measures of pleasure and pain. Medic's skin was slick with sweat, seeping into the sleeves of Spy's jacket all the way down to his own skin, making it difficult to keep a hold on him. Medic was drenched. His hair was flattened against his scalp, and on his chest and belly and arms. They could have just pulled him from the river with how wet he was. Spy could see the sweat dripping into his eyes, off the point of his nose, pooling in his ears. He could see the drool coming from the corner of Medic's mouth. It was a miracle he hadn't soiled himself.

Spy's eyes were fixed on the end of the needle. On the golden, honey-coloured liquid being pumped through it, directly into Medic's heart. He was so close to it now. His hand was inches away. He could grab it and pull and  _ end this _ before any more damage was done.

And then, abruptly, as soon as Spy had that thought, everything stopped.

Everything in the world came to an abrupt and sudden halt. Medic stopped struggling. Miss Pauling stopped fighting the doctor's legs, and Engineer stopped fighting his arms. Spy stopped breathing.

It took him a moment to realise what had happened at first. To understand why everything was so still. Had time stopped? Had the Earth itself stopped spinning? It felt that way. Time felt suspended. Drawn out. One long, drawn out note. One long, drawn out, never-ending beep.

Medic had flatlined.

Spy held very still. He waited for time to catch up. For this strange lag to snap back to reality so the machine could start working properly again. He waited, feeling for the familiar thudding of Medic's heart hammering under his arm. He waited for the doctor to draw breath. And when he didn't, he waited for the Respawn to kick in and envelope Medic in a flash of warm red light, whisking him off to another part of the base where he would awaken safe and sound and grumble about wasted time and faulty procedures.

Nothing happened.

Nothing in that room moved, or breathed, or made a sound.

Spy didn't know how long he'd been standing there. Seconds or minutes or hours. Days, he decided. It felt like days. Days and days since the heart monitor had been making that single, unchanging noise. Why had nobody turned it off? Why didn't anybody _do_ anything?

“No,” Miss Pauling said, breaking the spell. Breaking the stillness, and the peace that came with it. “No, that's not right...”

The world was in real-time again. All at once it came crashing back, hitting Spy like a concussion blast. Miss Pauling let go of Medic's legs. There was a little frown on her face, like she was confused. Like she didn't understand what was happening. She walked up the length of the table, coming to stand by Medic's head, looking down at him with wide, unsure eyes. Her hands weren't shaking, not even a little, when she pulled the gauze package from his mouth and pressed her palm to his cheek.

“This isn't right,” she said, again, higher. The Engineer let go of Medic's arms. “This isn't- this isn't right. I thought-”

She turned Medic's head. It lolled back like a rag doll, limp and unresisting. His eyes were open, clear and bright and unseeing.

Spy felt hollow. He felt as though all his insides had been scooped out when he wasn't looking. His guts and his organs didn't writhe or clench or drop. They simply weren't there anymore. He couldn't make his arms move. He couldn't let go.

_He is still warm,_ was the violent, roaring, wholly unwelcome first thought that entered Spy's mind. Medic was still warm. Hot. Unbearably hot, all over, burning into Spy like a sun. The tighter he clung, the hotter he felt. The more he burned. He worked on moving his arms. On loosening his grip, slowly, allowing him to stand upright, rolling Medic away from him and onto his back.

Miss Pauling pressed two fingers to his neck. Then to the other side, and then again. She took him by the shoulders, gently, and shook him.

“Opa?”

Her voice was so small that Spy almost didn't recognise it. Small and high, pinched tight in her throat with fear. Spy remembered, suddenly, who she was. What her relation to Medic was. It hadn't hit him before. Laura.  _Laura._ The daughter of Medic's daughter, and Medic's daughter had died years ago, leaving her child orphaned and alone, to be raised by her grandfather. This was not a distant relation, or a long-lost family reunion. This was a child losing another parent.

He watched, and the hollowness seemed to spread out from his torso and through his limbs, as she smoothed the damp hair back from Medic's brow. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but no tears fell.

“ _Please,”_ she begged.

And when several minutes had passed in silence, and Medic had not replied, she closed her small hand – had they always been that small? Had  _she_ always been so small? – around the end of the needle sticking out of Medic's chest and pulled.

The sound the needle made coming out of his body was even worse than the sound of it going in. She let the tip of it fall, hitting the floor with a sweet metallic chime. Medic lay flat on his back, arms draped awkwardly above his head. His eyes were still open, fixed unseeingly on the crumbling ceiling. His mouth was open as well, slack and unmoving. His chest did not rise or fall. His fingers didn't twitch, he didn't blink or make a single sound at all. And all Spy could do was stare at him. At his body.

Engineer pulled his goggled off his head entirely and held them loosely between his hands. He sighed heavily.

Medic sat straight up, and Spy screamed.

“ _Mon Dieu-!”_

Medic, dead Medic, lifeless, silent, moments ago still and unresponsive Medic sat straight up on the table and sucked in a deep, shuddering, rasping breath. He gasped for air. Coughed, clawed at his chest, fell back again, shoulders slapping heavily against the table.

Spy watched in absolutely disbelief as Medic's chest heaved, drawing air into his lungs, opening and closing his mouth, moving his eyes, his hands, curling his legs up toward him.

“ _Was- Was ist passiert?”_ he panted. _“Was-”_

He closed his eyes, his throat working furiously as he tried to swallow. Miss Pauling had leapt back, covering her hands with her mouth. She stepped forward now, spurred into action, hands shaking and busy as she tried to calm Medic down. She cupped his cheek in her hand, turning his head to face her.

“Can you hear me?” she asked. Her voice wasn't so high anymore, but no less unsteady. “Do you know where you are?”

“ _Irena?”_ Medic asked, cracking his eyes open to look at her in confusion. _“Wo bist du gewesen? Wo ist dein Bruder?”_

Miss Pauling was crying now, the tears sliding freely down her cheeks. But she was smiling.

“No, Opa, I'm not- I'm Laura. Do you know me? Do you know who I am?”

Medic blinked rapidly, his brows knitting together for a moment. His hand reached up to cover hers.

“Laura?” he croaked. “My Laura?”

She laughed, more of a hiccup than anything, and nodded as the smile spread wider across her face. His fingers curled around her hand.

Spy was paralyzed.

He didn't know what do. Every fibre of his being was longing to carry himself the few short steps to Medic's side, to throw himself onto the man's chest, to hold him and kiss him and weep over him and  _shout at him_ for daring to frighten him like that. For making him think he was going to be alone again. For  _dying_ without permission. Without goodbyes.

But he couldn't make his legs move. He couldn't make himself do anything except stand there and stare with his mouth hanging open.

“What h-happened?” Medic asked, trying to sit up on his elbows. Miss Pauling gently held him down.

“You stopped breathing for a while there,” she said shakily, quickly wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand. “We thought you were- Well. You're not. You're fine. You _are_ fine, right? How you feel? Can you move your legs? Does anything hurt? We should have had more fail safes, more time to prepare, and this equipment is hardly sterile, oh my god I can't believe we actually did this in this conditions, there's no way that any of this should have-”

“Laura-”

“-and I mean you weren't breathing for a _long_ time, it wasn't just a few seconds, Opa, you were _gone,_ it's incredible that you're back and speaking and everything! Because by all rights you should be a vegetable with massive brain damage, since your brain was deprived of oxygen for-”

“ _Laura-”_

“-we used to joke about you outliving me all the time when I was little but I didn't think that would ever actually _happen,_ please promise me you won't ever do that again that was so scary, I don't even want to think about funeral costs, trying to take time off work, I don't think I even have any black clothes-”

“Laura!” Medic snapped sharply. Miss Pauling clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Was I rambling?” she asked through her fingers. Medic's face split into a smile. He nodded.

“It's alright,” he said, reaching up to brush her hair behind her ear. “I'm alright now. I'm alive. I... _Mein Gott, Ich lebe...”_

He tried to sit up again, and this time Miss Pauling let him. Gingerly he rose onto his elbows, then sat up fully, swinging one leg down off of the table. Medic looked down at his hands in wonderment, holding them out in front of him to better see them in the light.

That was when he saw Spy.

Spy, standing a few feet away, watching him. He still hadn't moved. He didn't know if he could. But when Medic's eyes found his, and that flash of recognition crossed the doctor's face, Spy reckoned he was just about ready to try.

“You,” he said, though it came out as more of a hiss than a word. He took a step forward. _“You.”_

Medic's eyes widened as Spy closed the distance between them in one quick stride, taking the other man's face in his hands and pressing their lips together.

Spy didn't care they weren't alone. He didn't care that there were other people standing two feet away from them, and he didn't care what they might think or say. All that mattered was Medic. Medic, who opened his mouth to kiss him back just as fiercely. Medic, who wrapped a strong arm around his back and fisted the material of his jacket to pull him closer, to pull them together. Medic, whose bare skin burned under his touch like he'd put his hand to a hot stove. Medic, who tasted of sweat and blood and something sharp and metallic and raw that Spy could only describe as  _home._

“You were dead,” Spy gasped, when he managed to tear himself away even as Medic's teeth caught on his lower lip. He pressed their foreheads together, holding him close, allowing himself to be held. “You made me think you were dead.”

“I'm sorry,” Medic said, and it wasn't good enough. Spy kissed him, again, viciously, then pulled away with an obscene smack.

“Never – _never_ – do that to me again.”

Medic grinned at him. It was one his battle smiles, the kind that sent the enemy pealing in the opposite direction and never failed to send shivers down Spy's spine. It was a blinding, victorious grin. God, but he looked young.

“It worked,” Medic said, and clasped his hands tightly around Spy's upper arms, shaking him slightly, either testing or not knowing his own strength. “It _worked.”_

“After a fashion,” Spy said, in a tone that would have been dry if he weren't so breathless. “Your success was hardly without cost, _Docteur.”_

“Trivialities,” Medic said dismissively. He let go of Spy to look at his hands again. “This is incredible. Completely unprecedented.”

Up close like this, now that he had regained a smidgen of self control, Spy could get a proper look at the doctor. His hair was thick and black again, and it had definitely grown at least half an inch since during the start of the procedure. The hair on his chest was black as well, without a trace of the silver than Spy was so fond of. The lines were gone from his face, even more drastically than they had been from the day before. His skin was clear and slightly pink, with a healthy glow to it. The muscles of Medic's arms and shoulders were well defined, firm under Spy's wandering hands. He was pleased to see that the little layer of fat around the doctor's stomach still remained, apparently unaffected by the body's overhaul.

Spy wished they were alone. He wished they were the only people to exist, so he could have all the uninterrupted time in the world to explore Medic's body, inch by inch, and find every little detail that had changed or stayed the same.

“Where is a mirror?” Medic asked, before Spy's mind could wander any further, quickly pulling the little EKG leads off of his chest. “There are tests to be run, of course, but I want to see these results for myself before I make any judgments-”

Medic swung his other leg over the edge of the table and stood up. He took a single step, then stopped. He frowned.

“That's not-”

Medic lifted his foot to take another step, and Spy barely caught him before he toppled over.

“Doc!” Engineer said, hurrying around the end of the table. Medic seemed like he was trying to get his legs back under him, but they weren't cooperating.

“What's wrong?” Spy asked, worry and fear settling like a stone in his stomach. Medic's face was scrunched up, pulling his arm out of Spy's grasp to try and cover his eyes. _“Docteur,_ what is the matter?”

“ _Mein Kopf,”_ Medic hissed. Miss Pauling was by his side now as well, her features pinched with worry. _“Migräne.”_

Engie shifted to the side, putting himself between the overhead light and Medic's line of sight. Medic only made a pained little gasp and turned his face away, his lips drawn back into a grimace of discomfort. Spy looked helplessly to Miss Pauling.

“There's a gurney over there,” she said, her eyeline leading to the other side of the room. She looked back to Medic. “Can you stand?”

“ _Nein,”_ he grunted. She pressed her lips together.

“Alright, then, can you two carry him? We can't just leave him on the floor like this.”

Together Spy and Engineer managed to lift Medic and carry him across the room, depositing him carefully on the vacant gurney. A cloud of dust poofed up from the padding when the doctor's body was lowered onto it, but it seemed sturdy enough. Engie locked the wheels in place and Miss Pauling dragged over a moth-eaten privacy screen and set it up around him, blocking out the worst of the sunlight and the flourescents. Medic kept his forearm thrown over his eyes nonetheless, and only responded to questions with noncommittal grunts.

“Is there anything that I can do?” Spy murmured, while the Engineer went to see if he could find some clean water. Medic grunted.

“Keep your voice down,” he said, so quietly that Spy had to lean closer to hear him. “And stop whatever is making that pounding sound, _bitte.”_

Spy frowned.

“Nothing is pounding, _Docteur.”_

“Oh? Then it's my heart. _Scheiße.”_

“You've already stopped it once today,” Spy said, as quietly as he could while still being audible. He slid his hand tentatively across Medic's bare chest, letting it rest over his left pectoral, where the doctor had stabbed himself. There was no sign of a wound now. He could feel Medic's heart hammering under his hand, beating much too hard and fast for Spy's liking. “I would- I would prefer if you did not do it again. Please.”

The hand that wasn't covering Medic's face groped blindly until it found Spy's shoulder, then his chest. Medic mirrored Spy's actions, placing his broad, hot hand over Spy's own heart. His palm was scorching. Even through the fabric of his suit jacket, his dress shirt, and his cotton undershirt he could feel it burning into him. Part of him loved that.

“Earlier,” Spy said, suddenly struck by a thought, “right before you stabbed yourself in the heart, you... y-you said that you loved me.”

He was being stupid. Talking about this now. Talking about it at all. Medic's hand did not move.

“ _Was?”_

Spy wet his bottom lip, that fear creeping back into the pit of his stomach.

“You don't remember? You said it very clearly. You said, “I've outlived everyone I've ever loved, but perhaps it will be easier this time.” You were looking at me, when you said it.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Medic murmured. “I don't even like you.”

Spy's eyebrows shot up.

“ _Pardon?”_

“It's true. You have skinny legs, and you snort when you laugh. It's very unattractive.”

Spy's mouth fell open. He stared at Medic, trying to formulate some sort of retort – What happened to  _serious?_ What are we then? Was this all this a game? Do I mean nothing to you? – before he realised Medic was smiling. Just a little bit, just a small turning up at the corners of his mouth.

He was kidding.

Spy resisted the urge to clear his throat very, very loudly.

“Ass,” he settled for instead. Medic's smile widened. He hummed quietly when Spy pressed his lips to the corner of his mouth.

That was when Miss Pauling stepped around the privacy curtain.

“Oh,” she said, a blush creeping high into her cheeks. The blushed the same way that Medic did. Spy pulled away immediately.

“I'm-”

_Not sorry._

He wasn't going to apologise for this. He was tired of apologising for this. His sentence trailed off awkwardly.

“What is it?” Medic grunted, squinting at her out from under his arm. She composed herself quickly.

“N-nothing, I was just coming to check on you. It's been a rough day... How are you feeling?”

“I cannot feel anything but my head at the moment,” the doctor said, covering his eyes again. “It hurts. Did the Engineer find water?”

“Yes. Now he's looking for a cup that doesn't have mold in it.

“Hm. Wish him luck.”

“Is there anything you need?”

“Some quiet would be nice,” he said thickly. Spy looked down at him.

“I'm sorry,” he said drily, “Am I bothering you?”

“Spy, please. I am very tired.”

“We'll let you rest,” Miss Pauling said, before Spy could speak. Anyone and he would have bristled at being spoken for. But he saw Medic's slight, gracious nod, and felt the doctor's hand sliding away from his chest, taking the warmth with it.

“We'll be just out here,” he said, following Miss Pauling around the edge of privacy curtain.

It felt strange to be alone with her now. Again. She'd rounded on him, metaphorically, while they were gathering his and Medic's things from their bedroom back at Coldfront. She didn't threaten him  _directly,_ but Spy knew the difference between polite conversation and letting someone know that you were willing and able to harm them.

He didn't think Miss Pauling was going to kill him. He hoped she wouldn't. He got the distinct impression that she didn't approve, but whether if it was because they were both men or simply on the principle that she didn't want to think about her grandfather in a relationship with one of her coworkers was something he was unsure of. Regardless, she maintained an air of icy professionalism toward him. He didn't begrudge her that. She was his superior, after all.

“I'm going to try and contact the Administrator,” she said, slipping the strange, flat tablet out of her bag again. She pressed an unseen button on the side and what Spy assumed was a screen of some sort lit up. “We've been off the grid for way too long. I should have checked in hours ago, but with everything going on there just wasn't any time or opportunity.

Spy watched with interest as she pulled out a thin, black jumble of cords out of her bag and set about untangling them. There were two little lumps of plastic at the ends of the cord, which she promptly stuffed into her ears. The other end was jabbed into the bottom of the tablet. She began tapping at the screen with her fingers, and Spy was amazed to see that it produced results.

“Australian tech,” she said, when she caught him staring. “They're light years ahead of us in terms of compact computers. You can buy these things in a supermarket.”

“Is that so?” Spy said, quirking an eyebrow. Personally, his only experience with anyone from Australia came in the form of Sniper – a reclusive, disgusting bushman who threw his own urine and lived out of a van – and Mr. Saxton Hale – a boorish, violent brute with no self-control and no apparent ability to moderate the volume of his voice. Spy had heard of the many wonders of the mysterious country. So far, he was unconvinced.

But Miss Pauling certainly seemed to know what she was doing with that little device. Her fingers flew over its surface, entering passcodes and bypassing firewalls and signal scramblers before he even had time to realise what she was doing.

Finally she arrived a plain white screen, and held up her hand for him to be silent.

Spy waited patiently for her to begin the call.

After several minutes of silence, Miss Pauling began to frown. After several more minutes, and a few nervous taps to the screen, her expression turned worried. She pulled one of the little buds out of her ear.

“She's not answering.”

“Could she simply be away from the phone?”

The look he was given told Spy that he had just asked an incredibly stupid question and should feel bad about himself. He did.

“The line seems to be open but there's... no answer. No response, on any channel. Even her private line. There's nothing, there's just static.”

She pulled the other bud from her ear and tangled up the cords again before throwing them back into her bag. She powered down the device. When she looked up at him, her expression was grim.

“I can't get a hold of the Administrator. I can't get in touch with anyone at the company. We're completely on our own.”

 


	28. Left Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yup yup it's the second to last chapter everybody there's only one more after this
> 
> fuck

Spy looked up from his magazine.

“Do you hear that?”

Medic cracked open an eye. He had spent the better part of the last three hours curled on his side with a pillow thrown over his head, trying to block out the worst of the light and ignore the incessant pounding in his chest. He could hear the blood rushing through his ears. He could hear his own shallow breathing. He could hear a low, dull hum growing louder. Growing closer.

Spy jumped to his feet, the metal legs of his chair squealing loudly against the tiles. Medic winced at the sound.

“Do you hear that?” Spy said again, farther away.

Medic raised his head, listening to the _tap tap tap_ of Laura's heels across the floor and the _thud thud thud_ of the Engineer's work boots.

“Sounds like-”

“-and engine.”

“The window, quick, get these boards down.”

Splintering wood. Tentatively, Medic pushed himself into a sitting position. The room was spinning around him, every muscles in his body ached and contracted at the slightest movement. But he could hear it now, too. In the distance, but growing less distant with each passing second. The rumble of a vehicle ripping across the dirt toward them.

“ _Merde.”_

Medic had just put his feet to the floor when Spy spoke. If he focused, and didn't let the pain get the better of him, he could stand. If he could just-

“We need to go. Now.”

“Is there a way out of here?”

“There's a staircase at the other end of the hall. I don't trust the elevator. But the Doc-”

“I can stand,” Medic said, coming around the edge of the curtain. They all looked at him just in time for him to wobble. Spy was by his side in an instant.

“But you can't run,” he said, fixing his around around Medic's lower back. Medic snorted.

“I can if you help me. We cannot stay here. We must get as far down as we can, then hide and allow them to pass us, and then we can sneak past them.”

“I'll get the gear,” Engineer said, but Medic stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“There's no time. Leave it, we can't carry anything with us. Come, _schnell!”_

 

There were two vans, filled with two groups of heavily armed forces. They'd seen them coming in through another window several floors down. Medic was winded and aching, but he pointed them in the direction of a hiding place, and they all lay perfectly still as the door to the room was banged open, and a dozen pairs of heavy boots thudded past them in the hall. And then, when the footsteps moved up the stairs, they made a break for it.

They'd found a shotgun in one of the rooms. Double-barrel, loaded, with single extra shell sitting beside it. Engineer took it at once. Now they had more than Laura's revolver to keep them safe.

But now they were found out.

“They're coming back down,” Spy hissed, his fingers digging into Medic's arm as he pulled him along. Medic had slowed considerably. They were on the ground floor now, on the home-stretch, just a few short hallways away from escape. And their enemies were gaining fast.

“G'wan,” Engineer said, holding the door open for them to pass through. The three of them hurried past, Medic staggering along as best he could.

“Come on, we have to go!”

“I said go on,” the Engineer said. He wasn't looking at them. Past them, down the hallway, where the footsteps were growing louder. Medic saw the iron grip he had on the shotgun, and it clicked in his brain.

“ _Nein,”_ he snapped, pulling to a halt. “You're coming too.”

Spy and Laura turned as well, looking between them in worry, comprehension dawning on their faces.

“Oh for heaven's sake, _Labourer,”_ Spy said, grabbing his arm. “There's no time for heroics, you foolish American.”

“Get the Doc outta here,” Engie said, shaking Spy off. His gaze remained fixed on the opposite door. There was shouting now. They were close. “He's slowing us down, so I'm buying you time.”

“You have a family,” Medic said. The Engineer's jaw tightened.

“That I do. And they'll be well compensated, won't they, Ma'am?”

He turned his head sharply, locking his gaze with Laura. His eyes were green, bright and clear and determined. His grip on the shotgun was whiteknuckled.

“You see they're looked after,” he said. “I'm takin' care of your family, you damn well better take care of mine.”

“Mr. Conagher-” she started, but he cut her off by grabbing the front of Medic's shirt, dragging him down to eye level and nearly unbalancing him.

“Now you get out of here,” screwing his face up as he shook Medic slightly. “That stuff runnin' through your veins is gonna change the world, and you're going to make it _mean something,_ Doc. But it ain't gonna mean shit if you don't take your boyfriend and march yourself right out that door, get yerself as far from here as you can, and _live_ , y'hear? Now, _go,_ dammit, 'fore I lose my patience.”

He shoved a shocked Medic away from him, back into Spy's arms and turned around. Without another word he stepped back through the doors, slammed them shut behind him, and locked them. Through the grimy panes of glass, they could see him turn his back on them.

They ran.

Medic's lungs were burning. His legs trembled beneath him, but he didn't so much as slow. Not even when there was a muffled crash from behind them followed by unmistakable blast of a shotgun. One shot, two, and then three. Three shots. Three shells.

And then, as they rounded the corner into the entrance hall, they heard the machine gun fire.

They ran.

The two vans were parked in a V in front of the doors, doors open, drivers still occupying the front seats. Laura put two neat holes in the windscreens, and into the heads of the men sitting behind them.

“Go left,” she said, and they veered toward the van. Medic watched her yank the driver's door open and haul the corpse out of the seat, climbing in and starting the engine while Spy helped him into the back of the van.

“Drive!” Spy shouted, barely into the vehicle himself. Laura shifted into gear and put her foot down. Medic nearly fell over as the vehicle jerked into motion, spinning wildly just as their pursuers appeared at the far end of the corridor. Spy gripped the back of Laura's seat for support. _“Vite, vite!”_

“The tires!” she said, tossing her gun back in Spy's direction. He got the message. Two quick, precise shots, and the right side tires of the opposite van exploded. Spy slammed the door shut and sank heavily to the floor.

They dirt kicked up behind them as they tore away from the building to the sound of gunfire behind them.

 

* * *

 

No one had spoken for twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes of silent, furious driving through the desert in a stolen, bloodstained van. Laura's grip was white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Spy was slumped on the floor of the van, elbows on his knees and back to the door, staring at nothing with dark, half-lidded eyes. Medic had managed to drag himself into one of the seats, seatbelt fastened out of habit with shaking hands.

His head was clear now. It was the adrenaline, it must have been. Racing through him, accelerating the process, pushing his body into overdrive. The pain was gone. Replaced by heat, and a raw, burning sense of power.

Their enemies had not pursued them, or were unable thank to Laura's quick thinking. But with his new strength in his hands, this vitality coursing through him, Medic felt certain he could have killed them all singlehandedly.

But they had lost the Engineer.

The grandson of his old friend, and the boy he had once held in his arms when his father had bid farewell to him at the train station. That was many years ago now. Medic felt very old.

“Where are we going?” he asked, and his voice was steady for the first time in hours. At the sound of it Spy jolted as if shocked. Laura's eyes flicked to his in the rear view mirror.

“No idea,” she said. “Suggestions?”

Medic moved forward, leaning between the seats to look out the windows and get his bearings. He knew this desert. He knew this road, and he knew that they weren't safe out in the open like this. Nor were they far from safe harbour.

“The mountains,” he said, pointing to the distance. “Head for the mountains.”

“Toward headquarters?” she said, surprised, turning her head to look at him. He nodded.

“We need to find Helen. She has to be told about this.”

“Are you sure she doesn't already know?” Spy said quietly. Medic turned to look down at him.

“She didn't do this.”

“You don't think so?” the Frenchman challenged. “She runs the company, does she not? Who else could order this, if not for her?”

“Helen may like to _think_ she's in charge,” Medic said, lowering himself back into his seat, turning to face Spy completely. “And she certainly has accumulated a lot of power. But do not make the mistake of thinking she is the only one calling the shots. This feud did not start with her.”

Spy's eyes narrowed.

“You think Blutarch Mann sent them?”

“Or Redmond,” Laura added. Medic nodded.

“Either of them. Or both of them. There were two vans, after all.”

“You think they're working together? After all these years?”

“For a chance at immortality, I think we should not discount the possibility.”

The van fell silent.

In truth, the possibility of both brothers coming together under to hunt him down was extremely daunting. It was unlikely, true, that those two would agree on anything long enough to launch a joint mission after him. But if they hadn't been working together, even one of them on their own commanding a strike could be dangerous.

But Helen was not involved. He knew she wasn't. She couldn't be.

 

* * *

 

 

The sky was growing darker by the time the van reached the base of the mountains.

Laura knew right where to go. The headquarters of the company was a well kept secret, often rumoured to be far off in another country, or out at sea somewhere. The truth was only slightly less like something out of an Ian Flemming novel.

Headquarters was set deep beneath the mountain.

It was a surprisingly small operation. No great factories or laboratories, no legion of scientists living and working just beneath the surface. The Mann brothers may have their own warehouses, and Mann Co. itself was an enormous company, but the command center, where all the orders were given and processed, was tiny by comparison. It consisted of The Control Room, and a few offices where a small team of agents who gathered data on the daily little wars. Medic had only visited the place once. It was not a fond memory.

“That door shouldn't be open,” Laura muttered, cutting the headlights, but not before Medic could see the large rectangular hole in the rock. The van slowed to a crawl as it approached.

Spy, who had finally gotten off of the floor only an hour ago, rose to his feet and joined Medic between the seats, peering cautiously at the doors as they entered them.

“This feels very much like a trap, don't you think?” he muttered. Medic placed a hand on his back, as much for comfort as it was for support as the van slowly rolled into the darkness. He held his breath, felt Spy's heart beating wildly beneath his palm, waiting for the doors to slam shut behind them and the lights to go up, revealing their waiting captors.

It didn't happen.

The van stopped, and Laura killed the engine, and they all climbed out.

It must have been cold. Medic couldn't feel it if it was – he made a note to keep a record of his temperature, to see if this state of “running hot” would be permanent – but he saw the way Spy shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. Medic did him one better by grabbing his wrist and pulling him into a tight hug.

Spy froze, for only a moment, and then melted in his arms.

Medic felt him relax. Felt and heard him exhale the tense, shuddering breath he must have been holding since they arrived. Felt Spy's hands, tentative and un-gloved, snake around his waist and return the hug, burying his face in the crook of Medic's neck. Medic turned his face, pressing his cheek against the side of Spy's head. They were both badly in need of a shave, and a bath. The heat of the desert combined with running for their lives was not kind to their antiperspirate. But that was a problem for another time. For now, it was fine to stand here together, with Spy wrapped in his arms. Simply holding him.

They'd never done this before, Medic realised. Not with clothes on. Not just because they could, instead of because they were sandwiched together in a narrow bed with nowhere else to go. It was nice, he decided. Very, very nice.

Laura cleared her throat.

“Um, we're kind of in a hurry?” she said, and all at once Spy was tense again. There was the stiffness of his posture, the tight, controlled edge to his breathing. That wouldn't do. If they were really walking into a deathtrap, that was not how Medic wanted to remember him. He tightened his arms, pulling Spy just that much closer, just for a moment, before letting go. Spy stared at him in wide-eyed bewilderment.

“You looked cold,” Medic said simply, and watched the attractive blush he so loved – yes, loved, he'd said it now, no going back – creep into Spy's cheeks. He turned to the expectant Laura. “Shall we?”

“There's an elevator,” she said, immediately turning away from him. “It'll take us all the way down, but we still have no way of knowing what's waiting for us at the bottom.”

“You can handle it,” Medic told her, as they followed to the back of the garage, where a little red light was blinking in a panel on the wall. “You always do.”

She pushed the button, which responded with a small beep.

“Do you really trust her?”

“Who, Helen?”

“Yes.”

Medic turned his head, looking down at Laura out of the corner of his eye. She was still so small. Small and young and excitable, just as she'd been as a little girl. Everything a challenge, everything a game, always pushing herself and pushing against those who stood in her way. Pushing against those who looked at her and saw only a child, a woman who doesn't know her place, who couldn't see the fire burning in her soul. She railed against them, and emerged victorious. She had come so far.

Medic had watched her kill two men today. Clean, efficient, precise. He couldn't have been more proud.

“I trusted her with you, didn't I?” he said. Her eyes widened just as the elevator doors slid open.

The ride down was silent.

It was a long trip. Even as fast as they were moving, descending into the deep underground facility was a lengthy journey.

Spy fidgeted with his cuff links. He hadn't had a cigarette in some hours, as far as Medic knew, and it was beginning to show. Laura stared straight ahead, her gaze fixed intently on the crack in the elevator doors. Medic focused on feeling his stomach drop as the speed of the elevator picked up, carrying them down, down into the dark.

When they finally arrived at their destination, it was like stepping into a new world.

The walls were grey. As was the floor, and the ceiling, and all of the fixtures. The elevator doors were grey. The frosted glass concealing a large reception desk was grey.

The blood staining it was crimson.

“Oh, God,” Laura said. “Stay behind me.”

Together, they peered around the edge of the glass. There was a person at the desk. More slumped than sitting, with a large chunk of the side of their head missing. Bullet holes spattered the wall behind them. They weren't wearing a nametag.

Laura moved in front, throwing every door they came to as they moved down the long, grey hallway. They found the same scene each time; blood on the grey walls, a body sitting behind the desk. Door after door. By the time they reached the one they were after, Medic was shaking.

Laura pressed her hand to the wall, palm to the invisible scanner concealed there.

_Please,_ Medic thought, as her palm print was registered and identified.  _Please..._

The door slid open.

The Control Room was black. It was dark, even with the largest of the monitors lit up, playing static to an otherwise silent room. The door stayed open behind them, providing a secondary source of light. Their shadows stretched like giants across the walkway. Medic's hand were shaking.

“ _Nein,”_ he breathed when they drew close enough to the chair for him to see.

Helen sat in the high, leather backed chair just as she always had, watching the screens in front of her with heavy, sagging lids. Her face was pale. The pallor made her eye makeup and lipstick stand out in sharp, corpse-like relief, giving her the appearance of one of the monsters from the late night horror movies Scout and Pyro so enjoyed. Her hands were resting in her lap, covered in the blood that stained her stomach.

Medic fell to his knees in front of her.

“Helen?” he said urgently, taking her hands, feeling her wrists for a pulse. _“Gott, nein..._ Helen?”

“Took you long enough.”

Her voice was faint and strained, but Medic could have cried to hear it. Behind him, Laura gasped.

“You're alive,” he said, laughing, if only because he didn't know what else to do. Helen's eyes fluttered open and fixed on him, searching his face.

“As are you. Good. I was... worried...”

“Look at me,” he said sternly as her eyes began to droop shut again. “Helen, stay awake. You have a business to run.”

“Oh, don't start,” she snapped. There was a lot of blood. “You did it, didn't you? That must be the only reason you're standing here, having the audacity to look so good for a man your age. You should be ashamed of yourself, Erik.”

“It _worked,”_ he said, squeezing her hand in his, letting her feel the strength, the warmth of it. “We did it, _mein Freundin._ After all these years. I made you a promise, and I've kept it.”

“Oh, good,” she said, and her voice was far, far too weak for his liking. “Then I can finally die happy.”

“You're not going to die, Helen.”

“You still call yourself a doctor, don't you? What is your prognosis for this sort of wound?”

Medic pressed his lips together, thinking hard. The prognosis was not good. She knew and he knew it and she knew he knew it. No words of comfort would sugarcoat how severe her injuries were, and she wouldn't hear them even if he tried. There wasn't time to find the supplies he needed to attempt to stabilize her, and moving her was more of a risk than he was willing to take. This was bad.

And then he had an idea.

Medic set about unbuttoning the sleeve of his shirt, rolling up past the elbow. In one quick motion, he sank his teeth into his own forearm and bit down until he tasted blood. Then, he held the arm out in front of Helen's face.

“Drink.”

Her eyes took a moment to focus. When they did, she recoiled weakly.

“Don't be disgusting.”

“Helen, do you want to live?” he asked, pressing his arm closer to her mouth. “The serum flows through my veins. It is a part of me now, completely. It will save you, but you have to let me help. Please... live.”

Helen stared at him. His oldest friend in the world, an unchanging fixture in the madness of his life, looked him in the eye and stared him down.

And then, ever so slightly, she nodded.

She drank heavily. The wound had to be reopened twice, due to his incredibly accelerated healing factor, before he was satisfied with the amount she had taken in. He watched the colour return to her cheeks, and the blood coming from the hole in her stomach slow to an ooze, and then cease all together. He was right. It was working.

“That's enough of that,” she said, when the wound had closed up for the third time. Already her voice was stronger. Medic pulled his hand away, rolling down his shirtsleeve again.

“How do you feel?” he asked, and she scoffed.

“Perfectly fine. Don't ask ridiculous questions, I have no time for it. And neither do you.” She fixed her eyes on him, pinning him with the intensity of her gaze while her hand lashed out and latched on to his sleeve. “You need to leave, Erik. You have to get out.”

“I'm not not leaving you,” he said at once. The look she gave him was pitying.

“You really don't have a choice.”

“Helen-”

“I will survive my injuries, you've seen to that,” she sniffed. “I can rebuild, protect myself and my position. I am indispensable, whether they like it or night. You have no such luck. They've hunted you before. This time they won't stop. You have to leave. There isn't another option.”

“And what if they come back?” he pressed, holding her arm now as well. “What if they come for you again, and decide you're _not_ indispensable? What if-”

“I still have a few tricks up my sleeve,” she said, with as much of a smile as he'd seen on her face in years. “They won't take me by surprise again. They'll never get close enough to try. I will be fine, my old friend. You needn't worry.”

_I'll always worry,_ Medic didn't say. She was right. In his heart, she knew was right. They could never leave together, no matter the circumstances. He couldn't protect her, and she couldn't protect him if they were both hiding out in some lodge in the mountains. One of them always needed to be here, in the thick of things, accumulating the power and resources they needed to be in control of the situation. That was how it had always been, and how it would always have to be.

But there was something he could do.

“Laura,” he said, without turning around. “Stay with her.”

“W-what?”

“Erik, don't be absurd.”

“I'm coming with you,” Laura said, stepping into his line of sight. He shook his head.

“ _Nein,_ you're not. You're staying here.”

“The hell I am!”

Medic raised an eyebrow, rising to stand at his full height. Laura stood with her fists balled at her sides, disagreement etched into every line of her face. He placed his hands on her shoulders.

“You will be safe here,” he told her. “No one knows who you are, or your connection to me. We will all be stronger for you to be here, on the inside. You can continue your work and I can rest easy knowing your life has been derailed for my sake. I have to go, alone. It will be better this way, you'll see.”

“Opa...” she said, and he could see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. That wouldn't do at all. He pulled her into his arms, crushing her to his chest, and felt her arms immediately go around him as well.

He held for as long as he dared. They had already tarried here too long, and each passing second was only putting them more at risk. Helen was alive and stable. The Company would live in. Laura was in good hands. This was for the best.

“I'll send for you,” he said, pulling away and pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head. “When it's safe, and quiet, I'll find a way to contact you. It may take time. Chin up, stay strong. You will be fine.”

She opened her mouth and then closed it, nodding instead. She squared her shoulders and grit her teeth, just as she'd always done, and Medic gave her a fleeting smile. He turned back to Helen.

“I won't let you down,” was all he said, before turning away and heading for the door.

His pace down the hallway was brisk and measured. There was only one thing left to do now, only one place left to go.

“Alone?” Spy said from behind him. Medic turned but did not break his stride.

“ _Was?”_

Spy matched his pace easily, falling into step beside him, looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

“You said that you are going _alone.”_

“That is correct.”

“And what of me, _Docteur?”_

Medic's jaw tightened.

“I can't ask you to come with me. Not where I'm going.”

Spy's arm brushed against his own.

“You don't have to ask.”

 


	29. Something of an End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW
> 
> WOW OKAY SO THIS IS IT I GUESS
> 
> I FINISHED THIS THING. IT IS DONE. HOLY SHIT.
> 
> OKAY. Okay. So. I want to thank you all. I don't even know if I'm capable of expressing in words how extremely grateful I am to everyone to has read this story and followed it and basically supported it. Every comment, every kudos, every message somebody sent me has meant so, so much in terms of inspiration and self-esteem. It's been amazing writing this story and seeing the response to it. I've had so much fun.
> 
> Okay so before you charge off and read, I do kind of have a present for you, as a thank you gift I guess. I made an official playlist for the story and posted in on 8tracks, and you can listen to it here: http://8tracks.com/skarletfyre/what-s-done-in-the-dark
> 
> Thanks again everybody for this wonderful experience. Wow. I hope I'll have done right by you by the end of this.
> 
> ~~skarletfyre <3
> 
> edit: also fuck i forgot to add this, but to those who follow me on tumblr (or would like to follow me?) i have moved blogs! as of now i can be found at http://genuineanger.tumblr.com. all of my old fic is still accessible there as well. just fyi.

When they arrived back in the Coldfront control room, Spy was surprised to find all of the lights back on.

Medic had gone first. Spy insisted, out of a quiet fear that the doctor might not follow him through if he were the one to depart first. It was with a sigh of mixed nausea and relief that he stepped off of the teleporter platform and into Medic's steady, waiting arms.

“I'm never going to get used to those things,” Spy said, resting his forehead on Medic's shoulder while he waited for his legs to stop feeling like jelly. Medic chuckled.

“Fortunately, I don't think you'll have to.”

He stepped back, letting Spy stand on his own, but Spy didn't miss the way the doctor's hand lingered on his lower back as they looked around.

The lights were on overhead, and all of the little buttons and switches on the desk were lit up as well. Several of the screens were on. As they watched, they caught sight of the Demoman strolling leisurely down the dorm corridor, while Scout and Sniper were lounging on the remains of the last good sofa in the common room, around the massive, still-burning indoor bonfire Pyro had made. The other few rooms shown appeared empty, and several cameras were still dark. It seemed the best place to locate their teammates would be the common room.

“What are we going to tell them?” Spy asked, watching as Medic powered down the teleporter and hastily stuffed it back into its compartment. He sighed as he straightened up.

“Well, not the _truth._ Not all of it. We cannot allow too many loose ends.”

“They're going to ask about you,” Spy said, feeling cold now that Medic was no longer touching him. “The last they saw, you were a dying old man. Now you're... well.”

He waved a hand over Medic's form – the dark hair, the youthful, unlined features, broad shoulders, strong arms. All of the things that hadn't been there the day before. Medic looked down at himself.

“Is there really such a difference?” he asked with raised eyebrows. “I've still been unable to find a mirror.”

“It's noticeable, believe me.”

“Oh. Well then. I'm sure it will be fine.”

Spy rolled his eyes.

He was oddly giddy, despite of everything that had happened to them over the last day and a half. By all rights he should feel somber. Traumatized by the things he had seen, the people they had lost. But as he and Medic made their way out of the control room and toward where they new their teammates to be, all Spy could feel was excitement. And a tiny bit of trepidation.

Medic had not argued the point that Spy was going with him.

After his initial attempt to dissuade Spy, which was quickly rebuffed, he hadn't pressed the issue. He hadn't tried to trick Spy into leaving without him, or tried to pull any bullshit about it being too dangerous or too much of a risk for them to travel together. This was not the doctor's first time going on the run, nor was it Spy's. They knew the risks. And Spy knew for a fact that Medic had not left his granddaughter behind – planted inside the very company that threatened his life – for her safety. She was there as an agent. An ace in the hole, should whatever strategy he had in mind fall through.

Just like Spy could be.

He _could_ stay behind. Could stay with RED, or transfer to BLU, keep an ear to the ground and work his way up through the chain of command. Spy knew he could do it. Not easily, but it could be done. He could stay. He would be useful if he stayed.

But Medic wanted him to come.

They passed a supply closet on the way to the common room, and Spy very seriously considered dragging the doctor into it and pushing him against the wall to ravage. Later, perhaps. Later, they would have all the time in the world.

Scout was the first to see them. The boy was lazing on the couch, his head hanging upside down on the arm with his feet in Sniper's lap. He let out a squawk and tried to right himself when they stepped into the room, clipping the sleeping Sniper's chin as he did so.

“Doc!” Scout shouted, falling off of the sofa and quickly getting to his feet. “Spy! What the hell- where- where'd you come from-”

“SPY!”

Soldier erupted from beneath the sofa cushions, sending them flying and further distressing an already distressed Sniper. The American brandished his shotgun around the room, helmet wobbling wildly before he managed to focus on them. What they could see of his face broke into a wide grin.

“Hello, cupcake!” he said, waving enthusiastically at Medic, who, to his credit, waved weakly back. Sniper put his hand on top of Soldier's head and used it for leverage to stand.

“Fer God's sake, mate,” he said groggily. “How long've you been in the bloody couch?”

“Since approximately seventeen-hundred hours!”

“Christ...”

“How'd you guys even get here?” Scout asked, completely ignoring the commotion behind him. “And where's Miss Pauling? And Doc, why do ya look so...”

He tilted his head, frowning slightly.

“ _...good.”_

Spy snorted.

“I told you they would notice.”

Medic shot him a brief glare before clearing his throat.

“It doesn't matter how we got here,” he said unconvincingly. “We'll be leaving again shortly.”

“Leaving?” Soldier's face fell. He remained seated inside of the sofa. “But you haven't even seen the blood yet!”

Spy raised an eyebrow.

“I've seen quite enough blood for one day, I think. Soldier, what the hell are you talking about?”

Soldier pointed up.

In unison, Spy and Medic raised their eyes to the ceiling. There, dangling from a length of twine, which was connected to empty can of Bonk!, which was shot through with an arrow, was a large, dangerously heavy looking bag of thick, red blood. Medic stared.

“ _Gott im Himmel...”_

“Found it in the fridge,” Sniper said, resting his elbow on Soldier's helmet. “Demo thought we were holdin' out on him an' nearly drank it. Guess that BLU was in a hurry to get it out of sight. And I mean, we didn't know what to _do_ with it, so I just-”

He mimed drawing a bow and shrugged.

“That was my idea,” Scout said proudly, jabbing himself in the chest with his thumb. Spy was not surprised. Although, he hated to admit that there was a certain genius in the idea of hanging a prized item high in the middle of the room, where everybody could see it and nobody could get to it. Wherever the BLU Spy was, assuming he was no longer in the base, he must be seething.

“Where is the rest of the team?” Medic asked, still staring up at the blood bag with an amused little smile on his face. In the firelight, he looked radiant. Scout leaned back against the sofa and heaved a sigh. He was still staring at Medic, Spy noted with interest.

“Demo's asleep,” the boy said, listing the names off in his fingers, “On account 'a him being on patrol duty literally day because the guy's nuts. Pyro is grounded because they started usin' Demo's good booze for fuel when they ran outta gas for the fires – this ain't the only fire, by the way, it's just big, and they start crying if we try to put it out. Last I saw Heavy he was mopin' around the medbay lookin' like a sad fuckin' circus bear or some shit without the Doc around-”

Spy grimaced, feeling another twinge of irrational guilt deep in his stomach.

But that was all of them. Everyone that was left was accounted for. Scout and Soldier looked so happy to see them both alive and well. It struck him, really, for the first time, that they had lost a man. That he was never coming back. A quick glance at Medic showed the man was thinking the same thing. And now they had to tell everyone. Spy took a deep breath.

“The Engineer... Gentlemen, I am very sorry. The Engineer-”

“Truckie's in the mess,” Sniper said, casually. Spy blinked.

“He's-?”

“Makin' sandwiches,” the Australian said, as if he weren't speaking nonsense. “Takin' his sweet time about it, too. We only sent him off twenty minutes ago.”

“Engineer is here?” Medic said, stepping forward. There was an urgent edge to his voice. “He is here, now, inside this base?”

“He made the lights come back on!” Soldier said, nodding so violently that Sniper nearly lost his balance. “Pyro was not happy about that.”

“Where else would he be?” Scout asked, smiling. Smiling, like a fool, because they had no idea. And how could they have been so stupid? How could he and Medic have been stupid enough to bring the Engineer along without telling anyone he was going, without making it clear that he should no longer be in the base? They had endangered everyone. Every single one of their teammates could have been dead by now, and it would have been their fault. _Merde._

“Whoever is in the mess hall, it is not the Engineer,” Spy said, as calmly as he could. “The Engineer is dead. We saw him die hours ago.”

Sniper's smile slid off his face.

“You wot?”

“What the hell are you talkin' about?” Scout asked, straightening up.

“Engineer came with us when we left,” Medic explained quickly. “We were attacked, away from the Respawn system and he- he died, to give us time to run. But if you believe him to have also been here with you, then the only explanation is that the man you claim to be in the kitchen is in fact the-”

Medic was cut off as the far door swung open.

An enormous plate of sandwiches appeared between the doorframe, accompanied by the sound of laughter. The Demoman stepped through into the main hall, swaying slightly on his feet, a great smile on his handsome face. And beside him, half-concealed behind the pile of sandwiches, was the Engineer.

The newcomers didn't spot them right away. They took a few steps into the room, chatting politely, before Demo glanced up. He stopped.

“Ay, Doc!” he called brightly. “When'd you get back?”

The Engineer stopped.

Spy held his breath.

“Fellas,” the man who was not Engineer said, in an uncanny imitation of his voice. Medic nodded curtly, an acknowledgment. Demo looked between the three of them in confusion.

“Wha's goin' on?” he asked.

The BLU Spy moved in an instant.

The plate of sandwiches fell to the floor, scattering bread and lettuce and ham all over the ground. He struck out, losing his disguise as he grabbed Demo by the hair, yanking his head back, pressing the blade to his throat before the Scotsman could so much as widen his eye. Soldier let out a yell and leapt to his feet, only be restrained by Sniper.

“REMOVE YOUR HANDS FROM HIM OR I WILL REMOVE THEM FROM YOU!” Soldier bellowed, struggling against Sniper's hold. Over Demo's shoulder, the BLU Spy grinned.

“Welcome home, _Docteur,”_ the man sneered, dark eyes flicking briefly in Spy's direction. “We didn't expect to see you again so soon. And in one piece, no less.”

“Let him go,” Medic ordered, taking a step forward. Demo let out a yelp as the knife scraped over his Adam's apple.

“Respawn's back up, you dumb fuck,” Scout snapped, rolling his shoulders. It was a familiar move of his, to ready himself for a close-quarters fight. “You can't do shit.”

“Go on 'n kill me,” Demo said, trying to turn his head. “I'll jus' come up behind ye and shove a great bloody bomb where the sun don't shine and watch ye pop from the inside.”

“I don't need to kill him,” the BLU said, ignoring Demo completely. “I believe _hurting_ him will suit my purposes.”

Demo cried out as the blade sliced quickly across his cheek, leaving a deep, bloody gash across his jaw. Soldier redoubled his efforts to free himself.

“This has gone on long enough,” the BLU Spy said loudly, cutting through Soldier's unintelligible rage. He fixed his gaze on Medic. “You and I have business, Doctor, and I would see it concluded. One way or another.”

“What are your demands?” Medic said, taking another step forward. The Spy raised his knife, resting the tip against the corner of Demo's one good eye. Demo froze.

“You're coming with me,” the BLU said, twisting the blade slightly. Spy saw the Demoman screw his eyes shut. “You and I are going to walk out of this building. We will not be followed or attacked, and you hand yourself over to face justice for your crimes.”

Medic balked.

“My crimes? The only _crime_ I have committed is _living,_ Herr Spy.”

The Spy's lips twisted into a cruel smile.

“Precisely. You are an old man, alive well past your time. A relic. I would argue there's no use left in you, save what can be garnered from studying your corpse. But my employers may disagree. They want you alive. And I will be the one to bring you to them.”

“You have no advantage here,” Medic said flatly. “You are one man, alone, with a knife. You have been sloppy. You compromised your original plan by miscalculating the time it would take to take your prize and leave, and now you've miscalculated again. Six against one is not very good odds, _mein Fruend.”_

The BLU Spy smiled, and opened his palm.

Between the point where his fingers remained wrapped around the knife, along the bottom of the blade was a strange silver attachment. A little device, feeding directly into the edge of the blade. Spy's stomach dropped.

There were special weapons, he knew, crafted and handed out for special operations in the event that a problem should arise. These devices were lethal. They were designed to kill, in a way that the Respawn system would be unable to recover the person who fell victim to their wounds. That little attachment could deliver a pulse to fry a person's nervous system, to disrupt their neural patterns as they died, burning up the blueprint that Respawn relied on to piece a person back together after death. And if that blade were to be jammed into the Demoman's eye, straight into his brain...

Spy didn't know how his counterpart had gotten his hands on such a weapon. Only that they were extremely classified, and only handed out to top agents.

Agents like Miss Pauling.

Who had been given her own gun, bearing that same silver attachment. The gun that she had handed to Spy during their escape, and he had neglected to give back.

The gun that was currently tucked into the back waistband of his pants.

He had forgotten about it. In all the excitement he'd lost track of what he was doing with his hands, stuffing the weapon inelegantly in a place that was easy to reach but also difficult to notice. The odds were even now, and he had the element of surprise. If he was quick, and careful, he could-

“Hand yourself over to my custody,” the BLU Spy said, curling his fingers around the handle of his knife once more, “Or will kill this man. I will kill everyone in this base, and then I will kill you.”

“I thought I was to be taken alive?” Medic replied, his eyes fixed on the point where the knife's edge was cutting into Demo's face.

“You are. But I believe my employers will be more than forgiving, considering how much trouble you have caused them over the years. I imagine they'll be relieved to have that trouble taken off of their hands.”

“You know that for certain?”

“It is a risk I am willing to take.”

Medic was silent.

Spy needed a way to signal him. To let him know that they had the advantage after all. If he was fast enough he could get his gun out and get a shot off before anyone was the wiser, but that ran the risk of hitting Demo and killing him anyway. Which would be bad. Spy needed a distraction. He needed the BLU Spy out in the open so that he could-

So that he could kill him.

Permanently.

“Fine,” Medic said, and Spy took a moment to realise what he was agreeing to.

“Doc, what the hell!” Scout shouted, voicing Spy's thoughts. “We got him outnumbered, we can take him!”

“That won't be necessary,” Medic said, taking another step forward. “I tire of running. I am tired of being hunted. If your employers want me so badly, perhaps it is time to hear what they have to say.”

“ _Docteur,”_ Spy said, reaching out and catching Medic's sleeve. He wasn't hearing this. It was ridiculous. After everything they'd just gone through, he was willing to hand himself over, just like that? Was he out of his mind?

But when Medic looked at him, he was smiling.

It was just a small thing. A twitched of the lips, a crinkle around his eyes. Such a small expression, and yet it told Spy everything he needed to know. A flicker of movement caught his eye, behind the man and his captive.

There was a resounding crack, and the BLU Spy crumpled to the floor.

Demo scrambled away from him clapping a hand over his eye and bowling straight into Scout. Soldier had gone quiet in Sniper's arms. Sniper's mouth was hanging open. Medic was still smiling, and all that Spy could do was stare.

Standing over the BLU Spy's crumpled form, wrench in hand, was the Engineer. The _real_ Engineer.

He was covered in blood. The front of his overalls were in tatters, shredded with bullet holes that had ripped through his body. He stood, straight and alive and unharmed, glaring down at the man on the floor in front of him.

“Son,” he said, and Spy had never been happier to hear a Southern drawl in his life, “I think you're done here.”

Spy moved without thinking about it.

He crossed the room in four quick strides, heart pounding a mile minute. The world seemed to slow down the closer he got. He saw, in detail, the way the BLU's fingers flexed toward his knife, only a few inches away from where it had fallen out of his hand. The way the man was turning. The way, if he managed to grab his blade, that he would swing it up and across, in a cruel arc, and drive it into the Engineer's belly. He saw the events that would be play out if he was not fast enough. If he hesitated for even a moment.

Time sped back up. He kicked the knife out of the BLU Spy's grasp, reached back into his pants, and pointed the gun directly at the man's head. The BLU's eyes – black, he realised; they were not brown, but black – widened.

“You wouldn't,” he hissed, staring down the barrel of the gun. Spy quirked an eyebrow.

“Wouldn't I?”

He pulled the trigger.

The bullet went straight through the BLU Spy's forehead and exploded out the back of his head. He fell back, mouth open in what might have been surprise, and moved no more.

For a long time, nobody moved.

Spy could only hear the blood pounding in his ears. He heard the click the trigger and the bang of the gun. He saw the muzzle flash, saw the bloodspray, saw the body lying on the ground before him. His wrist ached from the recoil. So forceful, for such a little gun.

He had taken a life.

Again, after these years. All the promises to himself. All the oaths he took and reparations he made, and now he had killed a man. For real. This was not a false death. A momentary casualty in the toy wars he had been roped into, living and dying and living and dying, over and over in the course of a few minutes. This was a _true_ death. A permanent death. The BLU Spy was not going to get up and walk away from this. They weren't going to jeer at each other across the field in the next fight. There wasn't going to be a next fight. There was never going to be anything for him here ever again.

The gun slipped through his fingers and Spy took a step backward. A firm body blocked his escape. Strong arms locked around him, holding him, not restraining. Medic's voice was by his ear, saying something Spy couldn't hear. He wasn't listening. But he didn't fight the hug.

“I reckon that solves that problem,” Engie said, cutting through the roar in his head. Spy blinked, face to face with the stocky Texan.

“How?” he managed to ask, and the word tore itself from his throat.

“We thought you were dead,” Medic said and god but he was so close to him. Spy wanted to melt back into the other man's body, allow himself to be burned up by that terrible, wonderful heat. “We heard the gunshots and thought-”

Engineer chuckled nervously.

“Well, I, uh... I _was_ dead. Or darn close to it. This ain't exactly a Halloween costume.” He gestured to himself, hand sweeping down the front of his bloodstained overalls. “But I... Well. Guess there's no getting out of it now.”

He rummaged around in his pocket for a moment, and produced a used syringe. Inside of it, Spy could see just a small trace of golden liquid, thick and congealed around the end of the plunger. Behind him, Medic sucked in a breath.

“Now, I know what you're thinkin',” Engie continued quickly. “I wasn't gonna sell it or hand it over or nothin'. I took a little bit, just in case thing really went belly-up and you didn't pull through. Just enough that it wouldn't all be lost with you. I was plannin' on saving it, after. For tests and the like. But then I got shot to pieces and remembered I had it on me, so I figured might as well. Just to see what'd happen.”

He shrugged, looking down at himself, and placed a broad hand on his intact stomach.

“I reckon it worked out alright.”

Spy felt Medic take a slow, deep breath. His chest expanded against Spy's back, pressing them closer together, and Spy found himself counting out the seconds it took for Medic to exhale.

“I suppose it did,” the doctor said calmly, after an awkward amount of silence has elapsed. “You were very fortunate.”

"How did you get back?" Spy asked. Engie grinned at him.

"Fixed the teleporter. Miss Pauling's right, I  _am_ the Engineer. I got back here about an hour ago, decided to wait for you fellas to show up and back me up. Good timing."

Behind them, Soldier finally managed to wriggle out of Sniper's hold by elbowing the Australian in the stomach. Scout cleared his throat.

“Will somebody _please_ tell us what the fuck is going on?”

 

* * *

 

It had been an adventure, trying to give a satisfactory explanation while still obscuring most of the truth, but Spy thought they had managed. Medic did most of the talking. His hand remained tightly clasped with Spy's own beneath the table during the entire conversation, squeezing gently to cue Spy into adding his own bits. Engineer kept mostly quiet, but nodded along whenever he felt it was warranted.

Scout tried to start a Q&A round, which was quickly shut down. Heavy, who had been attracted along with Pyro by the sound of the gun going off, had burst in and frozen at the sight of them. He took in the sight of the dead BLU Spy, the blood hanging from the ceiling, the pile of sandwiches on the floor, and the fact that Spy was wrapped rightly in Medic's arms in the middle of the room.

Heavy was the one who insisted they all sit around the table like civilized people and talk things out.

Now, twenty tedious minutes later, they had all fallen silent. They'd made their excuses and told as much as they felt they should. Now all they had to do was wait for the judgment of their teammates.

“So,” Heavy said, chair creaking ominously beneath his massive bulk as he leaned forward. “You are leaving.”

“Yes,” Medic said at once. “We are.”

Spy squeezed his hand reflexively. _We._

“Are we ever gonna hear from you again?” Scout asked, looking between them with a somewhat forlorn expression. Spy looked to Medic. Truthfully, he didn't know. But probably not. It wouldn't be wise for them to kick the hornet's nest by keeping in contact with their old team while on the run. But in all honesty, he would miss them. Some of them. A little.

“Perhaps someday,” Medic lied with a small smile on his face. Demo had echoed Scout's question regarding Medic's looks earlier, which the doctor quickly explained away as being a trick of the light and the result of a healthy lifestyle. Nobody bought it. Nobody pushed the point, either.

“Are we goin' te get in trouble for just lettin' ye walk out?” Demo asked, looking around down the table. The cut on his face had been quickly and sloppily patched with a series of bandaids that Pyro produced from seemingly nowhere. They all had little pastel flowers on them. It would have been easier to take him seriously if the wound was simply left open.

“You may be questioned,” Medic told them, and Spy noticed the way Soldier stiffened. “But given that I have no intentions of revealing any of my plans to you, you will have precious little to tell. At the very worst, the building will be searched. But we will be long gone by them. You have nothing to fear from the company on my account.”

Spy didn't know if that was a lie or not. He didn't really want to know.

“When will you leave?” Heavy asked, speaking directly to Medic.

“Soon,” he said, his fingers tensing briefly around Spy's own. “We will have to pack again, and clean ourselves up before we could venture into public.”

That much was certainly true.

Both of them had a thick layer of coarse stubble along their cheeks and jaws. Spy's face was itching beneath his mask. Their clothes were dusty and sweaty and badly in need of a wash. They had only packed the bare essentials on their first trip away from the base, but seeing as this journey would be altogether more permanent, they had a lot more to pack.

Pyro mumbled something that might have been a question.

“Don't you worry, little fella,” Engie answered, much to Spy's surprise. “I'm staying right here.”

“You are?” Medic said, raising his eyebrows. Engie nodded.

“Well I didn't figure I had an invitation to go with the two of you.”

“Not _with_ us, but surely it would be safer for you to leave?”

“Probably,” the Texan considered. “But _safe_ and _right_ don't always mean the same thing, Doc. This is my family legacy I'm out here upholdin'. I wouldn't feel right just to leave it all behind, go home and uproot my family to go on the run. It's best if I stay right where I am. I can do my best here.”

Medic looked unconvinced, but he didn't argue. Maybe the Engineer was right. It was unlikely, in Spy's opinion, but he'd been wrong before. If he stayed, perhaps he could act as another liaison between them and the company, in conjunction with Miss Pauling, to keep them safe and informed of any moves against them. That may be an unfair expectation for Engineer to further risk his life for that, but... that is what friends are for, is it not?

“We should get started, then,” Spy ventured, trying not to look unnerved by the way his entire team swiveled their heads as one to look toward him. “Packing, I mean. It will be sunrise soon. We should be ready to go at first light.”

“I agree,” Medic said, and released his hand so that they could stand. Their chairs scraped against the floor as they pushed away from the table, getting awkwardly to their feet. Nobody else moved.

“Gentlemen,” Spy said.

He followed Medic out.

 

* * *

 

After all they had been through in the past two days, it felt likes ages had passed since they were last in the infirmary.

Somebody had cleaned up. The blood had been mopped from the floor, pieces of broken glass and the like swept up and disposed of. The doves were out of their coop. They descended on Medic as soon as he set foot through the door, alighting on his hands and shoulders, perching on the top of his head. The doctor simply laughed and welcome them in turn, by name, as if he could tell the difference between them. Spy left the man to his birds and made his way to the bedroom, intent on getting out of his grimy suit.

The bed was unmade, just as they'd left it.

The entire room was just as they'd left it. Spy stripped off his jacket and tossed it reflexively in the direction of the hamper. He would probably have to leave it behind, along with his shirt and underclothes; there was no time for laundry.

So much had happened in this room. So much had been shared between them in these close quarters, in more ways than one. The was the first place in a very, very long time that Spy had come to feel comfortable. To feel safe. In the darkness here, he allowed his carefully crafted guard to lower, bit by bit, until he was more or less completely exposed. It was here that he allowed himself to be vulnerable. It was here that Medic had opened up to him. That they had opened up to each other. Two broken men, with their unspeakable pasts and tired, weary souls, finding each other and themselves in the darkness of the night and the embrace of each other's arms.

This was where they had fallen in love.

Perhaps Spy was being too romantic. Putting too much sentiment into a simple room. But that didn't make it mean any less to him.

“You're filthy,” Medic said, coming in as Spy was pulling his undershirt over his head. He looked down at himself – dust clinging to his arms and legs, bruises all down his side, grit falling from his hair when he shook his head. The doctor wasn't wrong.

“So are you,” Spy retorted, nodding at Medic's dirt-crusted shirt and trousers, and the grime that clung to the soles of his boots. Medic simply snorted and started to unbutton his shirt.

“I can't exactly say I'm going to enjoy being on the run again,” he said, after a moment, tossing the shirt into the pile on top of Spy's discarded clothes. “We won't be able to access to our main bank accounts for a while. I assume you have a spare?”

“Several,” Spy said, stooping to pull off his shoes. They were completely ruined and would regrettably have to be left behind. “Though they don't contain as much as I would like. You don't happen to have a vault somewhere, do you?”

Medic laughed.

“Stocked with ancient treasures and solid gold bars? _Nein,_ unfortunately. I am not _that_ old.”

“You may be someday,” Spy said, and wished he had not.

He didn't want to think about Medic's so called “immortality.” The implications of it were staggering and terrifying, and not something he wanted to dwell on in the face of their new life together. There would be time for questions later. Hopefully, there would be all the time in the world.

Medic did not reply, for which Spy was grateful. Perhaps he was also thinking about the future and what it may hold for them. What challenges they may face, what tests they must pass in order to survive. They would have to go somewhere that their presence would not draw much attention. A Frenchman and a German living together, being together as they were, would not be something so easily accepted or explained away. Small towns were out of the question. Big cities could be just as dangerous, if they weren't careful. They may even leave the country, which would be nice. Spy tired of America. He'd had few chances to explore it away from work, without being on some sort of or job or another, but it had never felt like home to him. For all their talk of the Great Melting Pot, he had been able to resist assimilation into the masses at every turn, and was very proud of himself for it. He knew who he was. He had always known, on some level. Perhaps all it took to realise how much he missed being himself was for someone to show interest in him, beyond the features of his face.

Spy kicked off his pants and glanced over at Medic. At the way the doctor was tugging at his own belt, the two of them undressing in front of each other as if it weren't remarkable or unusual. As if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“Erik,” Spy said, and Medic's head snapped up. His eyes were wide, and Spy's throat was suddenly very dry. He swallowed. “I didn't say it before. I should have, but I didn't. I... wanted to say, I-”

He swallowed again.

“I love you, too.”

Medic – no, _Erik,_ he was Erik now, now and forever – held very still for a moment. And just when Spy – _my name is René,_ thundered the voice in his head – thought perhaps he had said the wrong thing again, he moved.

Erik's hands were on him in an instant, pulling them together, pulling him into a kiss that left him breathless. He was hot, he was so _hot,_ the contact of their bare skin was almost painful but he – _René, my name is René_ – endured. He would endure it all, for the rest of his life, it meant they could cling to one another til the end of days.

They staggered back through the bathroom door, never breaking contact, never breaking the kiss. René groped blindly for the shower faucet, not caring what temperature the water would be when they got under it. Erik was still wearing his pants and boots. It didn't matter.

“I love you,” René murmured again as they stood under the spray of the water. It was warm, but nowhere near as warm as the body pressed against him, pressing him back against the wall, pinning him with its weight and strength. “I love you. _Je t'aime._ I love you...”

Erik moaned into his mouth as René's nails dug into his shoulder. They were both filthy and grimy and sweaty, the water carving little valleys in the dirt down their bodies. Their hair was plastered to their heads, stubble scraping against stubble, skin to skin and cloth to cloth. He was still wearing his underwear.

“ _Ich liebe dich auch,”_ the doctor said, breathless, moving away from his lips and down his chin, his jaw and the scar they found there, down his throat. René keened as teeth scraped over his Adam's apple, quickly replaced with the soft, burning pad of a tongue and the thin, smooth lips he loved so, so much. One of Erik's hands left him, reaching down to tug at the fastening of his trousers, to free the hardness steadily growing there. René couldn't take it. He ground himself greedily against the doctor, desperate for any contact, any connection he could get. His thumbs hooked in the waistband of his own underwear, pushing them down around his thighs and _god_ when did he get so hard?

“Erik,” he said, loving the taste of the word as it rolled off of his tongue. Such a simple name, and yet to him at meant the world. “Erik. Erik. _Erik.”_

“I love you,” Erik said again, stepping into him, kissing him again. “René, I love you. _Ich liebe dich.”_

Hearing his name said by that exquisite mouth by that impossible, exquisite man was almost too much. His head was swimming. All control of his body had been lost, surrendered in the face of desire and something more. He was grinding pathetically against Erik's hip, not paying attention to whether or not he was actually getting anywhere or simply going through the motions. The other man, for his part, had grabbed a bottle of shampoo and squeezed a generous, fragrant amount into his palm. He dropped the bottle without ceremony. Erik's hands found their way to his body again, burning like brands against his over-sensitized skin, strong fingers curling around his hip to hold him still, and around his cock to make him scream.

Erik caught the cry in his mouth, muffled it with his tongue and lips. He took himself in hand as well, sliding them against one another and oh but this was a new and terrible sort of heat. René wanted to buck and shout, but pinned as he was it was all he could do to thrust into the doctor's fist, stuffing his knuckles into his own mouth to stop from bringing the whole base down on them.

This was too much. Too, too much, and both of them were already so close. Hard as they were, slick with soap and rutting desperate against one another, this was not going to be a long ordeal.

René came first, howling into the back of his hand, a long, broken sound that may have ended with a sob. Erik followed after, sucking a deep, dark mark into his shoulder, gasping and red faced and pumping his hand as if his life depended on it. And maybe it did. It felt that way, hovering in the moments of his afterglow, black spots and white lights firing behind his eyes. René slumped back, held up only by the burning body and the cool wall he was pinned between as his legs gave out beneath him. Words were pouring out of his mouth. The same ones over and over, and at least this time he knew he wasn't babbling.

_I love you. I love you. Erik. I love you._

 

Once they had properly showered – actually washed themselves, shaved, scrubbed the dirt from each other's bodies – and gotten out of their soaked clothes – Erik complained at length about his ruined boots – all they had left to do was get dressed and pack.

Some of their clothes had been left behind at the abandoned base, but it was no great loss. They wouldn't have much use for their uniforms where they were going, anyway. What was left fit neatly inside of two duffle bags and a satchel. Erik went out to the infirmary to fetch some things from his desk, and René looked over his remaining effects to decide what to leave behind.

He was leaving the disguise kit. There may be a use for it in the civilian world, but he was unsure if it would even function outside of the confines of the base. His cigarette case would be much more reliable, and a handy souvenir. He tucked it carefully inside his suit jacket, in its usual place, and then turned to his Ambassador.

It was a beautiful gun, and it had served him well. There was no denying that. It had become an extension of his arm on the field, a tool and yet more than a tool. But the purpose it served, and the life it represented, was not the legacy he wanted to attach to himself. It would stay.

And then, of course, there was his mask.

It looked foolish now. Staring down at it, flat and crumpled on the bed covers. Like something out of a Halloween costume, or a cheap bank robber's closet. He'd worn it – or one of several exactly like it – every day for nearly three years. Every morning he would put it on and every night, when he was all alone and all of the lights were out, he would take it off. There was a freedom in hiding his face. It made him seem mysterious. Dangerous. A man not to be trusted, or known. The mask – a balaclava, of all things – had been used to cover the shell of his old life.

But now _this_ was his old life.

He did not need a mask to hide. He did not need a mask to define himself. He did not need it, and he would not wear it. Not now, and never again. This life was ending. It was time to move on.

He did, however, snag his balisong and slip it inside his pocket as well.

Old habits die hard.

When René stepped out the infirmary, freshly washed and dressed, bare faced and feeling like a new man, he stopped an allowed himself a last look around. He would not miss this place.

Erik was in the corner, cooing at his birds. René was surprised to see a separate, smaller cage set on top of their enclosure, a single white dove contained within. He sighed.

“You're not bringing that feathered abomination with us, are you?” he asked, adjusting his cuffs. Erik simply smiled, straightening up as he did so.

“Archimedes has been with me longer than most,” he said, looking fondly at the bird in question. “Longer than _you_ have, I might point out. It would break my heart to leave her behind.”

“Her?”

“Yes, of course. Did you think she was male?”

René raised an eyebrow, bemused.

“Its name is Archimedes, _Docteur._ I was not aware that was a gender-neutral name.”

Erik waved his hand dismissively.

“Birds have no concept of gender.” He looked over at him, properly, and did a double take. “You're not wearing your mask.”

René ran his fingers leisurely through his hair. He wasn't wearing his gloves, either.

“ _Non._ It doesn't matter anymore. And frankly it was never very comfortable.”

“You look very handsome, René.”

It took much of his self control not to run across the room and throw himself into Erik's arm like a schoolgirl. Instead, he cleared his throat.

“Thank you, Erik. And you as well.”

 

* * *

 

 

The team was waiting for them by the main exit.

The Engineer had changed his clothes as well, dressed in casual garb with an absolutely enormous and ridiculous hat resting atop his head. But his smile was broad and welcoming, and he clapped René on the arm as they drew near.

“Well, ain't you a looker,” he teased, noting the lack of the mask. René grit his teeth into what might have been a smile.

“Toldja!” Scout shouted, hitting Soldier in the arm. “I _toldja_ he had hair under that thing! Ten bucks, pal, you fuckin' _owe_ me!”

“Not bad, Spook,” Sniper said appraisingly. Beside him, Erik snorted.

“The sun is already starting to come up,” he said, placing his hand firmly on René's back. “The supply train should be here soon, though we'll have to walk to the platform.”

He was carrying one of the duffle bags along with Archimedes' cage, while René took the other bag and threw the satchel over his shoulder. They had both put on warm coats, with gloves and hats stuffed into the pockets, in preparation for the journey ahead.

“The storm's died down,” Engie said, glancing toward the doors. “So at least you fellas have the weather on your side.”

“We'll hold the fort while yer gone,” Demo added, grinning broadly. He must have found himself a health kit left over outside, because his face had been completely healed.

“Yeah, don't forget to write,” Scout said, in a tone that made it unclear whether or not he was joking.

“Will miss you, _Doktor,”_ Heavy said solemnly. “And you, little man. Would like to hear from you again one day, if possible.”

“Oh, _mein Freund,”_ Erik said fondly, taking a step toward the giant to take his hand. “I will miss you as well. Perhaps one day we will see each other again, if fate is kind. I would like that very much.”

Heavy opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted but Erik yanking his arm, pulling him down so that they were of a height and pressing a soft, tender kiss to his cheek.

When Heavy straightened up, wide eyed and speechless, his entire face was redder than his uniform shirt.

“I have left the rest of the birds,” the doctor said, raising Archimedes' slightly as he stepped back. “I cannot bring them all with me, no matter how much it pains me to leave them behind. You'll look after them, won't you? Don't let Sniper use them for target practice.”

“Oi!” the bushman protested from the end of the line up. “I _like_ birds!”

“D-Da, _Doktor,”_ Heavy said, smiling wider than René had ever seen. “Will look after birds for you. Take care of them, like family.”

“ _Danke,”_ Erik said, his smile softening. He looked around at the others, and then to René. “Are you ready?”

“I believe so, y-”

He cut himself off with a scream as Pyro surged forward, bowling into him and wrapping a pair of strong arms around his middle, nearing taking him off his feet with the force of the hug. The arsonist was saying something even more unintelligible than usual, swaying slightly as they held him. René patted their shoulder comfortingly, once he had recovered.

“Pyro thinks you're very pretty,” Engie offered, grinning at him. “And they're gonna miss you somethin' fierce.”

“Oh,” he said. He could now hear that the creature was sobbing. “Well then. I... will miss you as well, Pyro.”

Pyro only cried harder and held him tighter.

“C'mon, Py,” Scout said, with a suspicious redness around his eyes. “They gotta go, man, and you're stayin' here with us.”

Grudgingly, Pyro released their death-hold on René and waddled over to Scout, wrapping their arms around him instead. The boy looked only mildly uncomfortable with it. René took a moment to straighten his coat and the front of his suit. He turned toward the doctor.

“Shall we?”

The great doors opened slowly, allowing the cold to wash over them as they stepped out into the world, greeted by the sight of the golden sunrise on the horizon.

The sky was clear, for the first time in months. Clear and blue, without a cloud in sight. The first rays of sun were already sliding down the front of the building behind them. The fresh snow crunched pleasantly beneath their feet as they walked toward the small train platform, to wait for the great locomotive that would carry them away to their new lives.

It was a beautiful day, in every sense of the word.

Beside him, Erik snorted softly.

“What?” René asked, turning to look at him. In the morning sun, he was absolutely breathtaking.

“Nothing,” Erik said, a soft smile playing around his lips. The puff of his breath swirled around his face as he spoke. “I was just thinking about running away again. I suppose I'll have to pick another last name, won't I?”

René smiled. He reached out, twining their fingers together in the light of the dawn.

“We'll think of something together.”

 

* * *

 

 

  _end_


End file.
